Robyn Hogan

Barry pays a visit

After they had left, Anne flouncing out with temper, Sarah simpering behind, Del closed the door slowly. Her hand slid over her jeans’ pocket and the little letter crackled; she fancied it felt hot against her skin. Tentatively, she removed it and, still walking slowly, returned to the table. She studied the envelope. It had been slit neatly by a letter-opener and, despite the turmoil of her thoughts, she suddenly saw again the Dunne household instrument with its corny kangaroo handle. Whatever happened to that? she thought. She removed the letter and smoothed it out on the table.

The paper was rough and yellowy; it had never been much better than butcher’s paper anyway. The pale blue lines, faded, and the ink more brown than black. As she looked at it, she had the irrational feeling that it had once been read dozens of times a day then folded away, too precious to destroy; hidden, but not forever.

Del was grateful Anne and Sarah had baulked at the Italian, that they had thought to show it to her rather then struggle through the contents themselves. The writing was simple, yet educated, and a lot of the language was in English. He — she did not doubt it — sounded young and in love. He’d learned he’d been accepted into the university at Bari, that the family home in Trani survived, that he was looking forward to his Margherita and the due ragazzi joining him there. And he had written it when she, Del, had been eight, maybe ten, weeks in the womb.

‘Margherita and the due ragazzi’ hit Del like a bomb. Her mother, her strict, unbending mother, had planned to run away. Had planned to desert the Dunne family, uproot herself and her children and go to live in Italy. And not even fashionable Italy but the South. Del read the letter through again, inspecting each word. The tone was of a continuing conversation; her mother had to have been party to this plan.

Was there only ever the one letter? Del tried to visualise her mother collecting the letter, stealing away somewhere quiet, slitting it open, reading. Had she replied? What had she replied? Even as she wondered, a calmness she had not felt since her mother’s death, settled on her. The doubt had been blown away: she was not her father’s daughter but the offspring of an Italian war prisoner and she would have to learn to live with that. A lump rose in her throat, tears pricked her eyes. She was not ‘Dad’s girl’ after all and felt a flare of anger that she should have been conceived in such a manner.

Adultery. Her mother had carried the sin of adultery for almost fifty years. And that dreadful priest had forced her to pass her guilt on. Forgiven Maggie Dunne her enormous, mortal sin if she would also confess to her daughter. The penance absolved Margaret Dunne but the sin, the result of the sin, lived on. In some countries they still stoned women for such a sin; what did they do with the children?

As in a dream Del rose and wandered into her bedroom. She stretched out on the bed and lay there, in the dimness, thoughtless. Then the tears came, flowing freely, while her throat ached and, eventually, great sobs racked her body into exhaustion.

The shrill call of the telephone woke her and, glancing at the clock, she realised it was only early evening. Too early for the twins but, even so, she stumbled out to answer it.

‘You must live in a palace!’

‘Eh? What?’ she mumbled, realising it was Barry on the line.

‘It takes you so bloody long to answer the phone. A man could die of thirst waiting for you to answer.’

Then why don’t you? she felt like saying but merely said ‘Sorry.’

‘At least you’re bloody there and not that dead, recorded voice.’

‘Yes, I’m here.’

‘Yeah, well. I thought I’d come down tomorrow, not wait ’til Tuesday. That okay with you?’

Del gritted her teeth, her mind racing for an excuse until she realised the diversion was welcome. She was partly primed for it. Anything to keep her thoughts playing an every day tune. ‘Lovely, Barry.’ On a note of almost hysterical recklessness she added, ‘and I haven’t had time to clear out the spare bedroom.’

‘That’s good, Babe, that’s good. I’ll see you tomorrow, mid-arvo.’

‘Do you know where I live?’

‘Too right I do. Seeya.’

‘Oh my God!’ she said as she replaced the receiver and put her hands, fingers spread, to her head, her face contorted in anguish. ‘What, oh what, got into me?’ She slumped into a lounge chair, moaning.

Slowly the streak of recklessness reasserted but not so much that she would take too many risks. Rising, she hurried into the bedroom and began fossicking through the top drawer of the bedside table until she found a partly used card of pills. She had ceased taking them some time towards the end of Kevin’s illness; she would have to begin again and contraception was unlikely to be immediate. Nevertheless, she slipped a tablet from its casing and swallowed it. But he’ll wear condoms, she promised herself. She hoped he knew how to put them on; she had not an inkling of how to even begin.

The telephone was calling again. Sarah. ‘Davy thinks you should have the pearls.’

‘Give it a rest, Sarah. I don’t want the pearls.’

‘Just that letter?’

Del clenched her teeth and forced a sound of agreement from her throat.

‘I’ve had an idea about the letter.’ Here goes, Del thought, and held her breath. ‘We could get the twins to see if they can trace the writer.’

‘Bit of a long shot, Sarah, there’s no address, just a postmark.’ She took a gamble. ‘Now, if there were others—’

‘—There’s not. Anne and I have been through everything of Maggie’s with a fine tooth comb. There is only that letter.’

‘Then I wonder why Mummy saved it.’ She was being disingenuous now. ‘Maybe she just used it as a lining in a box of beads. It’s of no particular interest. To anyone.’

‘Anne says she thinks she can remember her mother studying French.’

French! Del stifled a hoot. ‘Does she?’

‘What does the letter say? When you saw it this afternoon you said it was complicated; in at least three different languages.’

‘Ah, yes, but that was because the um French is,’ Del hesitated, ‘rather original in places.’ I’m getting this fibbing down pat, she thought. No wonder when my whole life has been a lie and she swallowed hard against the sob that was rising. ‘It really contains nothing of interest.’

‘Then why did she keep that one letter? Don’t you think, Del, there would have been more?’

‘Perhaps. But what if something happened to, er, Sally. The blitz or something. Mummy may have saved it because it was her last letter from her pen-pal.’ She waited briefly for a response but Sarah was obviously thinking, maybe accepting. ‘We are assuming Sally was a pen-pal; she could have been a friend who went to England before the war.’

‘Possible.’

Del followed up her advantage. ‘Do you know of any Brennans out our way? The name doesn’t ring a bell with me but if they’d left the district…’ she let her sentence trail off. ‘And it really doesn’t contain anything of interest. Just a bit about the weather and, er, um, talk of troops coming home. Look, Sarah, I don’t know where I’ve put it or I’d read it out to you.’

‘It doesn’t matter. It’s just funny that, we know now, Maggie had two secrets she kept from her family.’ Her tone was brittle; Del frowned at the fleeting thought that all might not be well with Sarah and David.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, one is that she could correspond in a foreign language. The other secret,’ spite sharpened Sarah’s words, ‘is the one you know about. It strikes me they may be connected.’ She terminated the call without a farewell.

A flush warmed Del’s cheeks as she replaced the telephone and clicked the answering machine on. She was going to have to watch her way with Sarah; Sarah, once something was within her grasp, did not let go lightly. Look at how she had orchestrated Davy’s career. Ah, yes!

But now there was Barry. It seemed today’s courting was not a fumble in the backseat of a car, the windscreen fogged; casual sex seemed to be more the order of the night. Whatever happened to the tremulous, old-time goodnight kiss while hoping the milkman wouldn’t arrive?

Del recalled once castigating a student, a bright girl unfortunately capable of something close to plagiarism in her essays, when she had suddenly made her escape. ‘I’ve got to go,’ the girl had said, checking her watch, ‘I’m already late for a dbb.’

‘A dbb?’

‘Yeah. Dinner, bed and breakfast,’ and, grabbing her backpack, she had dashed out into the night. Only as the silence settled in the halls did Del begin to realise the girl was off on a night of sexual liaison. The incident had sobered her sufficiently to make her try and explain emotional overload and passion to the twins, all of thirteen at the time, but she doubted her talk had been a success. She, Del, just did not have the experience to be a worthwhile guide for her youngsters in the promiscuous present.

She sighed. That tablet was not going to protect her. If Barry was to be an on-going thing, she would have to see a doctor; the script she had, had expired. There was a difference, though, between contraception and protection. Safe sex, they called it. She should definitely stock up on condoms but where do you buy them? Facing her doctor in a consulting room for a script was one thing; buying these unmentionables over the chemist’s counter quite another. And there were all those jokes about sizes and colours; they must be based in fact. She felt so incredibly naïve. Del was not sure she was ready for Barry; for any man. Her body, though, was already betraying her. The seeping wetness surprised her with its intensity. And there was the ache for a man’s hand on bare skin again; preferably a familiar hand but that could not be.

She would have to take control of the situation; it was no big deal today. Quickly she walked to the telephone and pressed Susan’s number.

Susan would help. After Alan had left Susan and gone to live in the apartment above the veterinary surgery with the kennel maid, Susan had had a number of sedate affairs. Now her out-of-town lover, Matt, had been a steady for the past six or seven years. Del suspected he had a wife and family in Brisbane. Whatever. Susan had experience and Del knew she could trust her.

They chatted for a couple of minutes before Del summoned sufficient courage to ask.

‘Susie,’ she hesitated before rushing on, ‘what sort of condoms should I buy?’

‘Did you say what I think you said?’

‘Um. Yes.’

Susan’s merry laugh filled the room. ‘You are a dark horse. And who’s the lucky guy?’

Del swallowed hard and unintentionally giggled. She wiped a sticky hand down her jeans and began twisting the hem of her T-shirt into a little roll. ‘He’s coming tomorrow. To stay.’ She felt like a guilty teenager — of her generation.

‘Really? Where did you pick him up?’

Humiliation burned through her. ‘I didn’t,’ she snapped and disconnected the call, switching the instrument over to the answer machine. In the kitchen she poured herself a glass of white wine and stood, biting her lip, staring out at the harbour.

‘I’m sorry, Del, that was very rude of me.’ Susan’s voice floated from the machine, deliberately loud enough for her to hear. ‘Please talk to me.’ Amusement burst through the serious tone. ‘I want to help. Please talk to me.’

‘You can stew,’ Del muttered and slowly sipped her wine, smarting.

Gradually her mood lightened and she realised that Susan had a point; taking Barry in just like that was really a pick up. A dbb? They had nothing but childhood in common and she had a sneaking suspicion he wanted domesticity; a replacement for his wife who had, it seemed, escaped into her own business. ‘Humph’ she said into the gathering darkness, squaring her shoulders but the memory of the cheeky grin, the sun tanned face, the way his hair, the colour of wheat stubble, flopped across his forehead urged her, in her father’s words, ‘to give it a fly’.

Next morning she drove to Chatswood, to Soul Pattersons, and stood, horrified, at the range of packets on the shelf. Even as she stared her mind refused to read the details but suggestion was warming her, building desire. Swiftly she collected half a dozen packs at random. A relaxed and cheerful young woman located the barcodes and, as she placed the packets in a bag, indicated one particular pack. ‘I find those the best,’ she said as she accepted Del’s cash.

‘Do you?’ Del stammered, adding ‘they are, er, very good.’ She hurtled from the shop; whatever made me say that? she thought.

Back in her apartment, she laid the packets out on the table, trying to identify the ‘best’ one, the whole range confusing in its variety. Coloured Fragrant swirled across the first pack she picked up. Dear God, she thought, do these smell like laundry detergent, ‘lemon scented’, ‘green apples’ or the ‘floral bouquet’ of toilet cleaners? ‘Green apples’ she knew from experience to be particularly nauseating; she set that pack aside. Ultra Thin. She shook her head; that did not sound safe. Ribbed was suggestive of something more than she wanted to happen. So it was down to the two claiming to be regular but one moving up-market to value-added Lubrication. Which one had the child at the counter recommended?

Tentatively, she opened a pack, pulled one out, staring, trying to imagine it in use. Unbidden, down the years came a remark of Kevin’s. ‘Using a condom is like having a shower in a raincoat.’ It was after the twins were born; she had taken herself to the doctor and begun the long years of chemical contraception. Maybe her relationship with Kevin was not as equal as she had believed. She shook the thought away; she had loved him, loved him still. And, anyway, in those days condoms were considered unreliable. It was rumoured that a percentage — five or ten percent — were deliberately perforated in manufacture in order to maintain Australia’s population growth. She smiled wryly at the memory wondering if the story had been true. She knew she had believed in it strongly enough to keep herself chaste throughout university. Though, in truth, her resolution had not been tested. Until Kevin, when she threw all caution to the wind.

She made herself coffee, staring out over the tops of the gum trees, not eucalypts but Sydney angophoras, branches, even at this height, the pale pink of a pelican’s beak. Susan. Susan had always been her wise mentor; she would have to ask her again. Before she lost her nerve she punched in the number, spoke briefly to Jodie and was put through.

‘Good morning, Del, and how are you today?’

Del shut her eyes, trying not to picture Susan’s knowing smile. ‘Sorry about last night,’ she said quickly, ‘but I do need advice.’

‘Not a problem. I was rude but you have such an air of innocence. Always have had. I was really being more joke-y than rude.’ There was a brief silence before she added, ‘forgive me?’

‘Yes. Of course. I was being touchy,’ a smile came into her voice, ‘there is a lot of the element of the pick up in the arrangement.’

‘Well, good for you!’

‘He’s a guy I went to school with, primary school, and haven’t seen since I was about twelve. He was at Mum’s funeral.’

‘Aha! He could be as innocent as you; is that what you are thinking?’

‘He’s married. Or has been,’ she added quickly. ‘I doubt we have much in common. But I have to begin finding companionship, haven’t I? I’m young enough for a whole new relationship.’

‘Uh-hu.’

‘He reminds me of the western plains, of the sunny openness I grew up in,’ she added, hoping she was not sounding a slut.

‘Eros riding in from the west, eh? And delightful Del has the hots. Sorry, I’m being flippant again.’

Del gave a half laugh, indicating she was forgiving but not encouraging, and let the smile stay in her voice. ‘What do you recommend?’

‘About the condoms?’

‘Uh-hu.’

‘Well, it’s best to hope he brings his own but every woman I know also carries her own so you’ll have to go and buy a pack. Or more, if you intend him to stay for a while.’ The tease was back in her tone.

‘I’ve bought some but—’

‘—You’re confused. Stick with Regular.’

‘I’ve got one pack that is Regular Lubricated.’

‘Fine. Fine.’

‘But who is it lubricated for? I mean, is it inside and out or—’

Susan’s laughter interrupted Del. ‘You’ll find out,’ she said through the laughter, ‘and good luck tonight. Must rush, bye.’

Feeling almost as silly as she had buying the things, Del replaced the telephone handset and, crossing to the table, collected the packs and took them into her bedroom.

Barry arrived soon after four. His face, with the country grin so like Dave Dunne’s and the hat-mark on his forehead, cheered her immediately. She was not going to regret this interlude, she assured herself, as she made them a pot of tea.

‘Nice pad.’ He was strolling round the living room, touching this and that, reminding Del of a tom-cat checking out his territory, maybe marking it.

‘We like it. It’s comfortable.’

‘We?’ he paused, raising an eyebrow, ‘aren’t you alone?’

‘There are the twins.’

‘Twins? Oh yeah, I remember hearing you’d had twins. But they’re not living here, are they?’

‘Not at the moment. Actually, they are in the UK.’ The thought occurred to her that she might have to pretend they were coming home if Barry became too permanent for her. She poured the tea, offered him milk and sugar, which he accepted. ‘I thought we’d eat Italian tonight. I’ve reserved a table.’

‘Reserved a table? You mean we are eating out?’

‘Yes.’ Whatever did he expect? ‘It’s not far from here and I’ll drive.’

‘I was looking for a good, home cooked meal. Roast lamb and vegies; or a stew.’ He grinned, tilting his head on the side in his cheeky manner. ‘Haven’t had much of that of late either.’

‘Oh,’ Del pursed her lips together, ‘I don’t cook,’ she said and sipped her weak black tea. She might be aching for some sex but she had no intention of turning domestic for it.

He rose and prowled into the kitchen. ‘It’s a pretty good set-up you have here. Can’t see why you can’t cook.’

‘I didn’t say “can’t”,’ she called over her shoulder to him, ‘I don’t.’

‘You mean you eat out every night?’ He pushed his way back through the swing doors.

She leant into the chair, crossed her legs. ‘Sometimes it’s take-away.’

He sat down again, drank some tea. ‘A bit surprisin’, I reckon, you not cooking.’

‘Barry, I work full time; I work very long hours. And I don’t care to spend any spare time shopping and cooking and cleaning up.’

‘But that’s what women do.’ He was frowning, genuinely puzzled at her attitude. Not exactly a quarrel but the silence hanging in the room was heavy. The hoot of a tug distracted him and he went out onto the balcony while Del remained seated, trying not to fume.

‘I booked the table for seven-thirty.’ She was defiant, decisive as she took the used crockery to the kitchen and slid it into the dishwasher. ‘It’s a casual place,’ she added as he wandered back into the room.

She had guessed correctly; Marco’s attracted a different night time customer to that of the lunch crowd. Young, bright, in groups or cosy couples. She was unlikely to meet anyone she knew; it was quite some time since she had last eaten out at night. Marco greeted her like an old friend, for which she was grateful; Barry could only believe she was a regular.

‘I can recommend the barbecued octopus,’ Del told him after they were seated, napkins on their laps, wine in their hands.

‘Octopus? What sort of tucker is that?’

‘Tasty.’

‘And, Jeez, Del,’ he leant forward, ‘take a look at the prices. Sausages, $21. Twenty-one bloody dollars for snags!’

‘They’d be home made, special Italian flavour. Probably aniseed.’

‘They’d be a rip-off. And why have we got wine; why not a beer?’

Del could feel her temper rising. ‘Because that is what I ordered. I’m sorry. If you would rather have beer I’ll ask for one.’

‘I thought it was the man who ordered drinks and that.’

‘Really?’ she hissed, teeth gritted, letting him see her flare of anger without attracting nearby attention. ‘What is it with you?’

He stretched a tanned hand towards her across the checked cloth. ‘You seem so different, somehow.’ He spoke softly, a note of sadness creeping in, his blue eyes sombre. ‘I had been looking forward to being with you, Delly Dunne, to have a good meal and yak about old times. You are not cosy and friendly like I expected.’

He looked so hurt, so puzzled, so little-boy, she relented, smiled into his eyes and patted his hand. ‘I see. Would you rather we left? Went home now with take-away?’ Perhaps she was stripping him of his manhood. It was a frequent complaint about modern women.

‘No. It’ll be okay.’ He lifted his glass and sipped, watching her watching him.

‘The fish is good,’ Del broke the silence as she noticed, from the corner of her eye, Marco gliding towards them. She sat back and let Barry do the talking. Gradually, they relaxed and, by the time the meals arrived, were chatting happily of their school days in the home town. But Del was careful with the wine. ‘Remember, I’m driving. And I’m a woman so I can only have half as much as you.’ Buttering up to him, stroking his masculinity; he was very attractive in that open paddock kind of way. Space and sunshine seemed his element and it would be nice for her to taste the freedom of the grassy plains again, she fantasised.

By the time they returned to the apartment both were fairly mellow. Del realised that the pattern of her life with Kevin could not be repeated. That relationship had been precious and unique; there could be no re-run. She must, if they were to stay friends, at least try to accept Barry and some of  his view of life. But the condoms produced a problem.

‘Really, Del, what do you take me for? I’ve only ever known Kate and she, me.’

‘You can’t know that for sure,’ Del declared, wishing she hadn’t. ‘And what about me: you might need protection from me.’

‘I doubt. You’re an innocent.’ He grinned in his irresistible way, hair flopping across his forehead, crotch heavy in his Y-fronts.

‘What if I get pregnant?’ she countered.

‘Dear Delly Dunne, you are well past that,’ before adding, as an afterthought, ‘aren’t you?’

‘No,’ she snapped. Everyone has heard of a woman conceiving at 48. Probably an urban myth but who wants to risk it?

The erection throbbed in the space between them. ‘No. No.’ Her voice was becoming hysterical. ‘You are not to touch me until you have that thing on.’

‘Okay. Let’s try.’

He fumbled with the rubber — or was it plastic? — swearing softly, Del refusing to help. Eventually he managed to get the correct angle and it slipped on. Excited, he lunged for Del smothering her face in kisses to which she responded enthusiastically. His hands, fingers spread, thrummed up and down her shoulders then her thighs and she held him tightly to her. She wore nothing but her pendant. He found it.

‘You’ll have to take this off,’ he commanded, releasing the clasp of the amber drop, ‘can’t fuck with another man’s ornament onya.’

‘Be careful with it.’ She grasped it from his hand, slid it onto the bedside table. Her father’s gift. She returned to feeling him, stroking him, stroking her hands up and down his sweating body. He might be living on junk food but his muscles were as strong as youth and her strength, the power that had kept her functioning for the past many months, was only too willing to respond. Then they were lying down, bodies measuring themselves against each other, gauging the fit. She gasped, stifled a scream into a gasp as he pushed inside her. And pushed and pushed. Her body responded, feeling the pressure, enjoying the weight. But it was over all too soon, his head jerking up with his cry of triumph.

‘That was terrific,’ Del, though somewhat disappointed, murmured, as she drew the sheet over them. He was asleep almost immediately, leaving her awake with a sad, hollow loneliness. She had expected better technique from the man who, as a boy, had so patiently fished, waiting for the line to be taken then securing his catch, pulling it in cleanly. He had not cared for her enjoyment at all — or so it seemed to a sleepless Del.

Eventually she drifted off and it was just on dawn when she woke and now the feeling of disappointment was with herself. The night’s brief game had been physical, evenly matched like a good game of squash, but so shallow. She slipped from the bed and, gathering some clothes, went into the bathroom. There she cleaned her teeth, and showered, shampooing her hair vigorously. Oh Kevin, she thought as the jets of water sprayed over her, the romp was fair but the cupboard was bare. How do I get out of this? Oh Kevin, why did you have to leave me? Leave me to cope alone with the Barrys of this world? She gulped, tears rolling down her cheeks, surprised she could give into such a level of self-pity. She lifted her head to the warm stream until she became calm.

Dried and dressed, she padded to the kitchen closing the bedroom door behind her on a snoring Barry.

Pouring herself some juice, she opened the balcony doors and went outside. A kookaburra sat nearby, smaller, bluer, one down visiting from the mountains, she presumed. It cocked its head and laughed at her, setting off the magpies across the way. The harbour water shimmered gold and sunshine flashed on the tops of the city buildings within her view. A train rattled up the rise to Wollstonecraft on its way to collect North Shore commuters. She turned back and noticed the fax paper curling from her telephone.

Tearing it off, she could see it was from Barbara in her large, loopy handwriting. Offering condolences — the twins had been in touch with her — she then went on to say she needed a break, a couple of weeks away from ‘leaky London’, and, please Del, join me in Italy. She could research for Susan’s project, while Barb attended a conference in Otranto. Only a day or two — for tax and staff leave purposes. Then followed the arrangements she had made. Del was, at first, rather aghast before excitement took over. Barbara might not be good at research but she could organise anything, anywhere, in a matter of minutes. She had Del on that day’s afternoon flight out of Sydney to Rome. That Del’s flying time would be twenty hours and hers, no more than four, had not phased Barbara; they would arrive at Rome together. From there they would take an internal flight to Bari, pick up a rented car and drive a couple of hundred kilometres south. She had booked them into a little, unspoilt resort not far from Otranto.

‘Well!’ Del began to laugh at the proposal then, reading through it again, thought, why not? She had learnt the hard way that life could be too short; she must grab opportunities where she found them. And a trip like this strengthened the myth of her work load and its importance in her life. And Barry? Going away so suddenly was, surely, a godsent out. She telephoned Qantas, confirmed the flight, paid by credit card and telephoned the bank, transferring the money for the fare and the trip expenses. She then dashed a faxed note to Barbara saying it was a mad idea and, yes, she would meet her in Rome as arranged.

Susan was highly amused when she called her. ‘So, last night’s caper was a little bit of a let down?’

‘Let’s just say Barb’s holiday proposal is too good to pass up. Would you mind looking after my mail, et cetera, while I’m gone? Both electricity and telephone accounts are due soon, I think, and I’ll leave some signed cheques for you.’

‘Not a problem. How long do you plan to be away?’

‘I have no idea,’ Del laughed, ‘but at least you can be sure I have the Frederick and Bianca story on the road, as it were. I’ll drop the keys into your office on the way to the airport.’

‘Hey, just a minute, what are you doing with the boyfriend?’

‘He’s still asleep but I’m going to turf him out now as I have to pack. It’s mid-Spring there, eclectic clothing I guess.’

‘Too right. Must rush. Enjoy yourself and keep in touch. Bye Del.’

‘Bye, Suse, and thanks a lot.’

As she replaced the handset, naked Barry came to stand beside her and began stroking her hair, nuzzling into her neck. ‘What are we doing today my darling Delly? Going back to bed?’

She moved herself away from him. ‘I don’t know what you are doing, Barry, but I’m going to Rome.’ She tried to sound calm but she was bubbling with excitement.

‘Where’s that?’

‘Italy, you nong!’

‘Ohh,’ he laughed, ‘pull the other one.’

‘’Tis true. And now I must pack.’ She walked into her bedroom, opened the wardrobe and pulled down her large suitcase. Barry followed her in and she waved towards the kitchen. ‘Help yourself to toast and coffee. If you want a newspaper, the railway station is only a couple of minutes away. Get dressed before you go out!’

He remained standing in the doorway as she lifted the suitcase onto her bed and opened it. She glanced up to meet the most puzzled little boy look; Barry was obviously deeply hurt.

‘I have told you and told you I am a working girl,’ she said gently, ‘and my associate, my London associate, has contacted me and made arrangements for us, she and I, to meet in Rome.’ Opening a drawer, she lifted out a couple of light woollen jumpers, placed them beside the case and began adding slacks, shirts and a long summery skirt to the pile. She would wear flatties and take the sling-backs. And night wear with a wrap — and a swimming costume just in case. Though not much into make-up, she began choosing enough to complement the clothes she had selected.

‘Jeez, Del, I think you’re mad. Stark raving bloody mad.’

‘Probably,’ she agreed and went on packing, keeping her head down.

‘It’s that wog blood in you.’

‘Sure,’ she agreed, ignoring the racist taunt; it came from childhood’s playground.

She felt him moving towards her and glanced up to note, with alarm, menace in the movement. ‘And no dago gives me the run round.’ His eyes narrowed.

Her heart began to pound; it was said most women were attacked by men who knew them. Defence strategies raced through her mind. There was nothing within reach that could be a weapon, only the sling-backs perhaps. Without realising it, she grabbed the corner of the bedsheet and began twisting furiously, tearing at it with her fingers, thinking hard and fast.

‘Perhaps you should leave now.’ She could not keep the tremble out of her voice and the words were only just loud enough.

‘Should I just?’ the charming, lop-sided grin turned up in a sneer. ‘But I don’t feel like leaving. Not just now. And no one knows I’m here.’

She flicked her eyes towards the shoes. Go for the head; they always expect the groin. But not yet. Nevertheless, she folded her hand over a shoe, her other continuing to twist the sheet. ‘My friend Susan knows and,’ Del rushed on, ‘she’s on her way over now.’

‘Corny, Del Dunne, pull the other one.’

‘I was talking to her when you came out.’

Doubt creased his face and his lips parted, panting; before they stretched into a cruel smile. ‘And how will she get in?’ He took another step towards her. ‘You might think you’re clever with your top education and your precious career but you’re not that smart, are you?’

‘She has keys,’ Del spat at him. ‘She always lets herself in,’ she hissed. She knew the security chain was in place; hoped he would not think to check.

Again, doubt flitted in his blue eyes. She followed up the advantage, slight as it was, by turning her wrist over, glancing at her watch. Its face was blurred by her fear but that did not matter; it was the gesture that counted. ‘She should be here any minute now.’

For a moment or two more, he glared at her, obviously weighing up his chances. Then, cock upright, he began to move slowly towards her. She was jammed between the bed and the wall, trapped. She slid her hand down the shoe, grasping it at the toes. She needed space for a swing to be effective, and speed to maintain surprise. He was looking at her, not her hands, as he approached, his hands stretched ready to grab her. Quickly she dashed the heel end across his face and, as he gasped, his hands flying to his face, she swiped the shoe under his genitals. He grunted, doubled over, and she scrambled rapidly across the bed to the door, in close proximity to the telephone.

‘If you come near me again I call the police.’

He dabbed at his mouth and gazed at the blood on his fingers. It was only a small break, a small ooze from the cut. Turning towards the chair and, claiming his clothes, he began to dress rapidly. Pushing his wallet into his back pocket, he picked up his unpacked bag and, looking her over with what he must have considered a superior stare, walked out of the bedroom to the entrance doorway.

‘That was bullshit, about your friend coming.’ He indicated the security chain. ‘You have proved to be a real disappointment, Delly Dunne,’ he pronounced, quite pompously. She watched him warily as he slipped the chain, opened the door and entered the common area beyond then dashed, pushing the door shut, fumbling as she slid the chain into its slot.

Trembling, she leant against the door. If ever you feel tempted like that again, she told herself, go to a hotel or motel, somewhere where someone would hear you scream. The enormity, the foolishness, of the trust she had placed in him had unnerved her as much as his threatening behaviour.