The Duel

"But you can say it. You must tell me. Do you love me one little bit?"

"You know the answer to that. Would I do this if I didn't love you?"

She kissed him again, then pushed him away. Looking at Clifford's dark curls on his collar and alert, thoughtful eyes she knew without doubt that she loved him. It was a shock because she had imagined that loving Stan inoculated her against loving another man. And she had lied; sex was a natural part of her feelings for Clifford. It wasn't about the pleasure, but about developing the bond they shared. She couldn't believe that at her age, after so much education and training and with years of experience of doing the right thing, she could think like a teenager with a crush. She had to think hard and her cynical, knowing, adult mind told her the right thing was to share her bed with Clifford. Anything else was a gross lie provoked by loyalty to Stan and a wish to avoid being put in the wrong. She had lost her bearings and in this confusion of thoughts and feelings she continued to say "no". Clifford was very understanding.

They finished their coffee and it was ten o'clock. Agitated now and feeling that she would have done better to have stuck with one glass of wine, Suzie went again to the Ladies. If only she could speak to Stan she was sure she could make things right. She took out her phone and there was no reply to her previous text. She rang home, then Stan's mobile, once more without a reply. Stan had to be home now: why didn't he answer? Guilt clutched at her, suddenly convinced he knew – that he knew she was with her lover. It was enough. She could deal with the guilt, but not the disgust at finding herself in such a sordid intrigue. She knew the sharpness of Stan's intelligence. Sometimes it frightened her when he picked out things everybody else had missed. Stan knew she was a cheat and his contempt would be unbearable. He would demolish her and she would crawl from the smash a cripple.

She returned to the table as Clifford finished paying the bill. "Clifford, I want to but I can't. I'm sorry. We must say goodbye. This is all too sudden for me and I can't cope. It's just not right."

Relief flooded into her as she said it. She rushed outside into the fresh air with Clifford hurrying after her. It was dark, the theatres were emptying and they were drawn into a tide of people flowing past them on the way to the tube. Clifford had hold of her arm and was saying something. She could see tears in his eyes and she felt strong again, able to make a concession.

"We can have a last drink at my hotel, but that's it. We've had a wonderful day. I'll never forget it. And who knows what comes next? Nothing can be certain."

Until that moment there was no way she could have ended up in bed with Clifford. She was not drunk; she'd made clear she wasn't sleeping with him. Sex in itself would be harmless and gratifying, but she had no wish to live with the fear of discovery, of having to weigh every word she used with Stan and of the guilt that would stay with her forever.

They went into the hotel bar and Clifford bought champagne to celebrate a great day, one that would stand out for both among the grey endurance race of work. Relieved to have got a grip and made a sensible decision, she enjoyed their drink, kissed Clifford seductively because she loved him and was grateful for his understanding and because it was right; he deserved her affection and she wanted him to love her. Stan could spare him that much without taking hurt. Everything was fine and she'd deal with Stan without being crippled by shame.

She was back in control and must have let down her guard, because two hours later Clifford was asleep beside her in her hotel bed. He was smiling in his sleep, his breathing like a cat purring.

It wasn't clear to Suzie how it happened. She must have acted like a teenage virgin. They'd embraced in the hotel bar, dreading the moment they must say goodbye, but shy and uncomfortable at displaying so much passion in public. They'd finished the champagne, it was late and they were locked on one another's arms, tearful and desperate.

'This matters so much. We must do whatever it takes to hold onto this feeling,' said Suzie.

'I'll treasure this moment to the day I die,' said Clifford. 'Nothing matters so much as this.'

'We deserve this moment. I want you to know how much I care for you. I love Stan but you mustn't doubt the feelings I have for you.'

'Show me,' said Clifford. 'You're the smartest girl I know. Show me those aren't just a lawyer's clever, manipulative words.'

Minutes later they were in the bedroom, on the bed, and Clifford's hand was inside Suzie's blouse. She lay back, happy that her indecision was past. Clifford was clumsy and unathletic, but on the other hand he must have learned something from his serial failed relationships. She let him take the lead and could even enjoy his clumsiness; it was a part of his character. He was more eager than Stan and tried harder. It seemed nothing to give away pleasure and Suzie tried her hardest. Already Clifford was her man and she was anxious that he felt satisfied with her.

Both wanted it to be a special moment in their lives, but it wasn't. They were tired and had drunk too much and in any case both knew even if they couldn't say it that the sex was a mistake. Suzie loved Clifford and that's why she took him to bed; she wanted to please him and it had seemed the right way to express her feelings. Now it was done, she knew that was wrong and marvelled that she could have thrown away so much for so little. Sex didn't strengthen her bond with Clifford; it confused things. She'd lie to Stan – it was necessary – but she'd taken a step that would change the rest of her life and already she regretted it.

Four: Beautiful England

Stan sat in his empty house working out what it meant to have three days to live. Or, at least, three days with his full capabilities. By seven o'clock he stopped expecting Suzie to walk in and began to think carefully about what her absence meant. He wasn't a fool and knew things weren't right between them. There was no aunt or business meeting and he knew she had gone to London for reasons of her own. He re-read her texts and was only surprised she made up such a careless lie. That morning she'd been too preoccupied to notice his anxious state and he'd watched her put a change of clothes in her work bag. Why would she go to work dressed one way and then change into something more casual? Because she wasn't staying at work. Why make the effort to change? Because there was someone she wanted to impress. Why not dress at home for her date? Because she wanted to hide her intentions. He wasn't dead yet but already he was left behind and she was moving on.

Details which had puzzled him at the time now returned to goad him. That morning, when she left for work, she'd not responded to his familiar parting kiss, but had then checked herself and made a point of kissing him warmly. And he recalled an argument a few nights before about whether they should buy organic rather than the cheapest milk. He said they should buy organic because it guaranteed the cows had been allowed out to pasture. She said that allowing grazing land for animals reduced food productivity and this accounted for starvation across the world, an argument he'd never heard her use before and which was contrary to her usual concern for animal health. When he said it was rubbish, she'd been angry and said lots of people believed it. And when he asked her to say who, she was silent. She didn't mind losing an argument, but she did mind him rubbishing and destroying this particular argument. Was that because it came from a special friend whose opinions she listened to with admiration and who she couldn't name? He knew Suzie.

He'd had all day to think and by the middle of the evening he knew without doubt, with all the prescience of a mind freed from a body purged by disease, that she was with her lover. He needed no more proof and a spasm of anxiety gripped his chest. He'd put his trust him her and she'd let him down when he needed her most.

For months there had been something wrong, but he'd distrusted his feelings, confusing her coldness with his fears about his health. They were a close couple, spending most of their time when not at work in cosy intimacy. They shared friends and enjoyed one another's families. But since the turn of the year they'd had little to say to one another and neither had made the effort to arrange meals or weekend holidays or evenings at the theatre. He'd thought it was because he was tired from his illness but now he wasn't so sure. Suzie was a clever woman. If she had still been close she would have noticed that he was in a bad way and would have know it was her job to help, just as they had each helped the other at moments of crisis.

Stan knew he must get a grip. He didn't want to waste his remaining time paralysed by hatred and self-pity. Far better stop this maundering and get on with the stub of his life. Eventually he was disgusted by his depression and made coffee and forced himself to be cheerful. He put on some music: London Calling by The Clash. It suited his mood. His wife had walked out on him. Well, he would walk out on her. Dying was a very final separation.

He sipped coffee and thought about what he enjoyed doing the most. It took a while to decide he would miss the moment of surprise and delight on reaching a mountain summit on a clear day, that rare instant when a new vista opens ahead and the effort of climbing is over. If there was one place he had to go before he died, it was the English Lake District, a place of happy memories of walking and mountain climbing when young and too poor to go abroad. There was nothing to stop him driving there now. He thought about it. He'd camped many times at the top of Wastwater in the rain and cold and had envied the people wealthy enough to stay in the isolated Wastwater Hotel. A quick check for details on the internet and he phoned the hotel. They surprised him by having a room available for the following night.

It seemed like destiny. He finished his coffee, wrote a brief note to Suzie, packed a bag with his warmest clothes and left home at about midnight. When he set his phone to charge in the car he saw he'd missed another call. This time he felt no curiosity about where Suzie was. She'd not replied to his plea for her to call and he had no wish to hear her lies.

It took four hours driving on empty roads. He stopped half way for breakfast in a sleepy motorway services. Dawn was lightening the air from beyond the mountains as he drove the last miles along the edge of Wast Water. He parked the car, changed into boots and walked along the lakeside before breakfast in the hotel bar. Already he was feeling better. The pain was gone. His energy returned in the upland air and he relaxed knowing he had the whole day ahead of him to do just as he pleased. He paced himself. He'd not brought a map and refreshed his memory of the route he wanted to follow from the map on the wall of the bar. The summit of Scafell via the Lord's Rake, the Mikeldore and then Scafell Pikes. He bought a pre-prepared packed lunch, bars of chocolate and Kendall Mint Cake to be sure he'd not run out of fuel. Then he set out.

It was still early but there were other walkers on the path taking advantage of clear weather for the walk to the summit of England's highest peak. After a few hundred feet of climb, his hip began to ache and he had to slow down, measuring each step with care. He swallowed a couple of ibuprofen flushed down with a mouthful of beck water and decided he could cope with the pain. He even found himself overtaking one or two of the slower walkers.

It was more peaceful after he turned off the main path onto the track to the Lord's Rake, an ascent up a narrow fissure in the rock face to the summit of Scafell. The climb to the start of the rocky chute became steeper and more difficult underfoot and he slowed even more, knowing the rock scramble would test his hip. After a struggle, he came to the base of the climb and found two young women dressed in bright yellow and pink examining the route, looking up at the rock and down at their map. Struggling for breath, he rested when he came up to them and said hello.

"Do you know if this is the way up to the summit of Scafell?" asked the girl in pink leggings and ear muffs.

It was good to see a pretty face. He smiled and pointed to where they were on her map.

"This is the Lord's Rake. It's a fine route if you've a reasonable head for heights and don't mind rock scrambling," he replied.

"Is it safe?" asked the girl in a yellow fleece. She too seemed delighted with her day.

"The main risk is from someone dislodging stones above you. If we climb together we can make sure we don't harm one another."

It was agreed and Stan led the way. He explained his disability because he had to pause ever dozen feet of climb. The two girls were solicitous and asked him sensible questions. By the time they reached the top of the chimney and came out onto the open fell they knew about his cancer and in return he knew that Bella and Simone and had just finished their final exams in Psychology at Lancaster Uni. Both were eager for fresh air and open country after continual study since Easter.

They stayed together for the slog to the summit of Scafell and he felt guilty for sucking up so much good cheer from the two girls – their enjoyment in their surroundings, their youth and beauty and their willingness to be his nurses. He shared his chocolate with them on the top of Scafell and they huddled together, hoods up against the sharp wind from the Irish Sea. Then they descended to the Mickeldore, a saddle between the summits, before joining the well-trodden path to the large summit cairn on Scafell Pikes. They took their time and at points he had to steady himself with a hand on the shoulder of each girl, but they made it and joined the excited throng milling round the cairn and looking out over the mountain tops to Scotland. Not once on the way had he thought of Suzie or of death. For the moment, in spite of the pain, he felt complete again.

Five: Return of the native

Suzie slept well after the excitement of her night with Clifford. She made him leave at two in the morning, woke early in excellent spirits, showered, ate her hotel breakfast, caught the train back from London and drove home to change. Relieved that her adventure had been a success, she was now in a hurry, conscious that she was late for work. With the benefit of a night's sleep she was beginning to believe that she had handled herself well. So what if she had succumbed to temptation? It was behind her and the task now was to insert herself back into her ordinary life. She'd behaved true to herself and had survived.

On the drive home from the station, she stopped and changed back into the outfit she wore when she left the day before. Once more in control of her story, she was eager to explain herself to Stan. The dreadful moment of panic, when she hadn't known what to do, was forgotten. For better or for worse, she'd done the deed and now she had to follow through.

Stan wasn't home; the house was empty. Suzie was disappointed because she'd rather have got her explanation off her chest. Now she'd have to remember her speech till the evening. She showered quickly and put on a new dark blue business suit. Already she was thinking about work. She couldn't make a habit of being late and if she and Clifford were to meet again she would suggest a mid-point meeting to make it a day trip – a treat to look forward to once in a while. She'd always wanted to visit Cambridge, with time for a proper look at the Fitzwilliam Museum and King's College Chapel. She'd suggest it to Clifford. Stan didn't like looking round country towns or shopping or spending a lot for an average meal in a country pub. And however they chose to spend their day she'd make sure she was home at the usual time and ready for work the following morning.

Uniformed and feeling fresh, Suzie hurried downstairs and searched for her phone and keys. In the kitchen she paused to look through the previous day's post clipped to the notice board. There, beside the mail, she found a pencilled note: "Had some bad news. Gone away to think it through. Not sure when I'll be back. Friday latest. Hope you enjoyed your night out in London. Say hello to your friend for me. Stan."

She read this more than once and her immediate response was irritation. What's Stan playing at now? Then she read it again carefully. What bad news? Why couldn't Stan say what he meant? She sat down on the stairs out of breath. Could Stan's aged mother have died? She dismissed the idea. Stan wouldn't have rushed off without telling her. Had he lost his job? Possible. He worked for an aggressive telecommunications company who were always fiddling with their middle management structures. He'd survived many bloody battles but always said he'd run out of luck one day. Or he might have lost his temper and been dismissed on grounds of conduct. Stan was smart, but his temper was never fully under control.

She read the sarcastic bit about a friend a number of times. Stan was trying to mess with her and, piqued by not being able to voice her defence, she went to the phone and rang his mobile. There was no answer. Then she called his work and spoke to his secretary, who she knew by name. The girl seemed a little put out, as if Suzie was attempting to involve her in some dubious intrigue.

"Stan's on sick leave," said the girl.

"You mean annual leave."

"Sick leave. He's signed off until the end of next week."

"Rubbish Mary. Stan's not sick." Suzie missed the girl's confusion at having to tell the wife that her husband was sick.

"He's not told me what the matter is, but he's in pain. He can't hide that all day and it shows when he's tired. You must have seen."

The girl clearly found the subject upsetting. In pain? Suzie put down the phone. This conversation was surreal and she wondered what Stan was plotting. Stan couldn't be sick; she would have noticed. She closed her eyes and swallowed. Yes he could. That's exactly what had happened. Now she bothered to think, she had noticed. In recent weeks Stan had stopped running upstairs as he had always done. She could picture him toiling as if carrying a box of books. And he'd been getting up in the night to go to the toilet and he found it difficult to get out of bed in the morning, moaning and protesting about how tired he was. Most unlike Stan. And there was the pain. He'd never said anything to her, but she remembered how he'd bent to get something from under the sink in the kitchen and had winced and been unable to straighten up. She'd laughed at him and told him he was getting old. Now it didn't seem funny; in fact she was mortified to realise how much she had seen without drawing the obvious conclusion. What had she been thinking?

Then she began to feel sick. Had Stan really found out about Clifford? He knew about computers and might have read her emails, although it wasn't something she could imagine Stan doing. Was his illness a cover for the emotional pain she had caused? This was becoming a nightmare and she took off her jacket and went to the kitchen to get some water. It was too awful to imagine, but she couldn't dismiss the idea. Shaking her head and angry with the unfairness of her situation, she tried to concentrate on what to do. Her mind was paralysed, but she knew she must speak to Stan.

She stared at the phone. Why did they keep failing to talk on the phone? She pressed the button to display the recent calls. In the list, among the unanswered calls from her mobile, was an unknown number called yesterday afternoon. She picked up the receiver and dialled the number. It was answered immediately.