A Gift for Henry

A Gift for Henry

The blanched parsnips are lined up head-to-tail in the roasting tin. Brushing them with a honey glaze, Kate pops them back in the oven and sets a timer for forty minutes. The stuffed saddle of lamb and roast potatoes, her husband Henry's favourites, are browning nicely. Sweet scallops from the local fish monger, a nod to this evening's guest, are dressed and in the fridge. Kate will sear them at the last minute in a hot pan and finish with a simple lemon vinaigrette.

The night before the school play, little Katy couldn't sleep. Take care of all the little things, her mother had said, sitting at the end of the bed. Take it one step at a time and you'll be alright. These words had helped Kate through her school and college exams, her first job interview at the local florists, and even to overcome the last minute nerves on her wedding day.

Nearly forty years later, Kate Winterton still heeded that good and sensible advice. It seems the preparations are under control. Don't think too far ahead, she repeats, stay calm, keep busy.

Kate washes up some cooking utensils and a glass bowl in the sink. Looking out the kitchen window, the flower beds are a riot of summer colours, the manicured lawn is a lush green, despite a lack of rain. Beyond the white picket fence at the bottom of the garden, golden fields of barley ripen in the August heatwave, swaying gently in the early evening breeze.

Kate relaxes, letting her guard down. In a momentary lapse in concentration, the memories of springtime in Provence quickly return to haunt her.

* * *

It was a warm day, the sun shone brightly in a deep blue sky. While it was too early for blooms of lavender and sunflowers to be seen in the fields, the garrigue was rich with the scent of rosemary, thyme, and Mediterranean pine. There were blankets of red poppies in the long grass along the hedgerows, flourishing in early May to avoid the fierce midsummer heat. Kate and Henry sauntered back to the farmhouse after a long, boozy lunch. The holiday had been a last minute decision, a much needed chance for the couple to reconnect after a busy period. Henry often spent long hours away from home, presiding in court or tutoring at Gray's Inn. It would put an inevitable strain on any marriage. Kate was his third wife.

As they walked down a country lane, Kate steered the conversation around to Henry's birthday. He would turn sixty in August.

"It is an important milestone, darling," she insisted earnestly. He could be touchy about his age in ways that his much younger wife sometimes struggled to relate to. "We should celebrate it. Maybe we could host a garden party on the village green or book a reception room in London? I should like to give you a special gift too, something truly memorable to mark the occasion."

He had stopped in the road and peered at her shrewdly from underneath his straw fedora, evaluating the possible options the way her husband often pondered over difficult legal matters at his walnut desk. "I think a gathering in London would be best - perhaps at Compton House by the river? As to my present, what were you thinking of?"

Kate really had no idea. Emboldened by the red wine at lunch, she rather foolishly announced. "You can have anything you want, anything at all."

Walking on another hundred yards, they had stopped at a farm gate. While they watched a parliament of rooks scavenging worms from the bare soil, he said. "I can ask for anything?"

"Yes, my darling. What do you truly want for your birthday? Don't be shy."

"Very well," he began, after due consideration. "I would very much like to share our bed with another woman. All three of us together, just for one night. This is what I want for my birthday."

Had she heard him correctly? Kate was stunned. "Are you being serious?"

"Quite serious, my dear. You said anything I wanted."

"I never expected you to say something like that."

They walked the rest of the way to the farmhouse in stony silence. Kate had already rejected the beastly idea outright, the thought of sharing her husband with another woman horrified her. However, she knew deep down that she had sowed the seed of an idea with her husband that would persist long after they had returned to England. Henry looked pleased with himself, the wheels already turning in his legal mind, setting out the facts of the case and his persuasive supporting arguments.

And so it had proved.

* * *

Henry calls out that the taxi has arrived. It is the moment of reckoning. Hanging her apron by the door, Kate checks her recently dyed honey blonde hair in the mirror and smooths out the creases from her crepe cocktail dress. Taking a deep breath, she walks into the hall. Henry is talking to their guest, helping her out of a summer coat. Although her husband is quite handsome in his dinner jacket, he is totally eclipsed by the younger woman. Sylvie is about 5' 7", the same height as Kate, slim with long brown hair that looks effortlessly wild and tamed at the same time. The trainee barrister is wearing a wonderful little black dress, which perfectly complements her hourglass figure, undoubtedly an exclusive Parisienne design from one of the many stylish boutiques near Montmartre.

Kate tries to say something, anything, but she is lost for words. There is an awkward silence before Sylvie comes to her rescue, greeting the dumbstruck hostess with a warm hug and a Gallic peck on each cheek.

"You look wonderful in red," their guest whispers. Sylvie stays close to Kate, arms cradled around her hostess's waist, steadying the older woman's jitters. "And I love your new hair colour."

"Thanks," Kate replies, finding her voice at last. "Your dress is amazing, did you bring it from France?"

"Oui, d'accord."

Henry clears his throat. "Shall we through to the sitting room?"

Sylvie takes Kate's hand and leads the way. Henry smiles, watching them from the doorway. Kate notices and pulls away from the young woman, scuttling to the drinks cabinet. Sylvie has a gin and tonic with ice and a slice of lemon, while Henry has his usual large glass of vintage brandy. Her husband seems a little more boisterous than usual, if that is even possible, relishing his role as the ringmaster for this evening's circus act. He asks Sylvie about her latest case, an accountant cooking the books, which all sounds rather dull and complicated. After passing around the drinks, Kate hovers at the edge of the conversation for a minute or two and then slips quietly away unnoticed.

Back in the kitchen, Kate immerses herself once again in the detailed dinner preparations. Opening the fridge to retrieve the scallops, she notices an uncorked bottle of Chablis in the door and pours herself a large glass. She gulps it down, a little shaken, finishing it before adding the scallops to a generous knob of butter that is already sizzling in the frying pan.

* * *

Kate had tried in vain to make alternative suggestions, but the old dog had stubbornly refused her. Instead, Henry had set about making the necessary arrangements with undue eagerness. At least his wife had managed to establish a few ground rules for the person sharing her bed. Rejecting forcefully his proposal that she asked her friends, Kate had insisted on a stranger. It wasn't to be an escort or anyone he paid, she found the idea of that quite demeaning, but someone that her husband knew either through his work or his many social connections. Finally, and above all else, Kate requested the chance to meet any of his recommendations, before they eventually made a decision. Surprisingly, Henry had accepted her demands without any further argument or attempt at re-negotiation, but afterwards he took control. He always did. As a result, Kate found herself rarely consulted about any developments as June rolled into July.

Having heard nothing for several weeks, Kate had started to speculate as to whether her husband had found the search for someone agreeable more difficult than he had perhaps expected. She even secretly hoped that he had dropped the idea entirely. Therefore, her heart sank when he made an announcement over dinner one evening. As she returned with his coffee, Kate saw a small photo placed in front of her on the table. Henry was beside himself with glee. It was a young woman, late twenties or early thirties, with an oval face and high cheek bones, her long tousled hair parted messily either side of her head. Kate listened as Henry introduced her. Sylvie was a legal student from Chartres in the Loire Valley, who was in pupillage at Gray's Inn. Henry had met her in chambers, taking her under his wing. Kate stared at the picture, her reaction strangely muted. Sylvie was pretty and not so young that the woman could be her daughter. Kate began to wonder if Henry was already sleeping with Sylvie, she certainly was his type. Okay, she told him, agreeing to meet her. Kate would meet the enemy, this existential threat to her marriage, face to face on the battlefield. When Henry added that Sylvie was returning to France at the end of September, Kate was thankful that that would be the end of it. Feeling tired, she went to bed early that night, but couldn't sleep. Mulling it over at three in the morning, it dawned on her that she was not only sharing her bed and her husband with another woman, but inevitably sharing herself too. Kate was shaken by her immediate curiosity. What would it be like to sleep with another woman?

* * *

Kate dresses the small plates and carries them through to the dining room on a tray. Sylvie and Henry are still colluding on work matters when she brings the starters to the table. They sit down at one end with the two women facing each other. Her husband lights the candles and pours the chilled white wine from a fresh bottle. Sylvie and Kate dutifully toast his good health and wish him a happy birthday. While Henry tucks in, oblivious to the tension, neither woman seems to have much appetite.

"This is delicious Kate," Sylvie says, nudging the food around her plate.

"Thank you." Kate watches as her husband tops up their wine glasses. Already tipsy, Kate knows she should slow down. She strikes up a conversation with Sylvie. "I know that lamb is Henry's favourite, but I wanted to cook something that reminded you of home."

"You are kind." Sylvie is smiling, looking straight at Kate with big soft brown eyes. She has a lovely smile.

Kate feels something soft and silky brush against her leg. It hooks around the back of her calf, leisurely moving up and down. Henry is watching them, his head moving back and forth like a tennis spectator. Does he know that his French lover is playing footsie with his wife under the table? Kate is trembling, afraid, excited. Embarrassed, she pulls her legs away, hiding them under the chair, out of Sylvie's reach. When her husband has finished, Kate rises unsteadily to her feet and clears the table. Sylvie and Henry resume their debate, but Kate knows the young woman is secretly watching her from the corner of her eye. Kate likes it.

* * *

The first time the two women had met was at the village f ê te, which the parish council held in the middle of July. Henry had ambushed his wife, inviting Sylvie along without her knowledge. Kate and her husband had been sitting in the shade of the refreshment tent, when the young woman had approached their table and confidently introduced herself. Sylvie looked stunning in a floral summer dress. Kate had studied her, the way a lioness sized up a rival for a mate. But as they chatted, so her curiosity about her had returned.

After a round of Pimm's and lemonade, Sylvie suggested the two women investigate the handful of stalls with various cakes, arts and crafts, and the charity tombola. They had left Henry at the table, grinning like a Cheshire cat as he watched them head out. Try as she might, Kate had struggled to find fault with her bright and engaging companion. She had even wondered, if under other circumstances, whether they could have been best friends. But what, apart from Henry, did they really have in common?

Sylvie did most of the talking. In her early twenties, she had studied European Law at the Sorbonne in Paris. The way the young woman talked, it was obvious to Kate that Sylvie was passionate about the legal system, the cut and thrust of written arguments and the showmanship in courtroom debate. There was no doubt that she was a feisty and determined orator.

Kate found herself drawn to the young woman like driftwood following strong ocean currents to the rocky shore. Sylvie threaded her arm through hers, pulling her close as they walked around the village green. Losing track of time, they had meandered down to the river, following the bank towards the old boathouse. Out of sight, Sylvie had kissed her. It was no more than a quick peck on the lips, but the sensation and its significance had lingered long afterwards.

"I'm sorry," said Sylvie, responding to Kate's startled expression. "I didn't mean to scare you. I...just needed to know... to know if it felt right."

"Oh," Kate answered meekly, her head still spinning. "You caught me by surprise. I wasn't expecting... I mean... I don't know what Henry has told you."

"Everything." Sylvie's voice was calm and caring. "I know it is his birthday soon and you are a dutiful wife. His proposition intrigued me. I was interested enough to want to meet you today. I'm pleased I did."

They had been married for seven years. Kate had strongly suspected that he had had affairs during this time, she was his third wife after all, but she had decided early on that it was best to simply turn a blind eye. Sometimes Henry could be pompous and selfish, but he was also kind and gentle to her. He gave her the emotional and financial security that she had always wanted and she loved him for it. Suddenly she had felt a pang of jealousy.

"Are you sleeping with my husband?" Kate had blurted out.

"Not yet," the young woman had replied mischievously. "I am undecided."

"Will you still come for his birthday?" This gift for Henry had always seemed more important to him than her, but something had changed. Kate felt vulnerable waiting for an answer.

"May be,... definitely," Sylvie had brushed the hair from Kate's furrowed brow. "I will if you want me to."

* * *

Back in the kitchen, Kate tries to compose herself for the main course, still shaking from Sylvie's touch. She takes the lamb, potatoes and parsnips out of the warm oven, somehow managing not to burn herself, and puts them and the steamed vegetables into serving dishes. Her heart is racing, her breathing fast and shallow. Kate picks up a heavy tray, steadying herself against the granite topped counter. Her head starts spinning, around and around, like she is riding the waltzers. As she lurches towards the kitchen door, one of the tray handles slips through her fingers and the lamb platter crashes to the floor. In a blind panic, Kate staggers towards the dining room door, her whole world falling into a black void. The others are in the doorway, staring at her. Henry growls irritably, but Sylvie stays his hand, the young woman's eyes are filled with pity. Kate looks down, her dress ruined, splattered with grease and caramelised honey.

"I can't do this." Kate screams, fleeing the kitchen. Overwhelmed by her embarrassment, the tears are streaming down her cheeks.

* * *

Kate stands on the verge of the en suite and rubs her face gently with a towel.

The dress lies angrily discarded at the foot of the bed.

"Are you alright, Kate?" Sylvie asks from the doorway. The young woman is holding an empty wineglass in one hand and a Louis Vuitton clutch bag in the other.

"Yes, I'm fine." Kate tries not to sound hysterical. Of course, it isn't fine. "I just need a minute to change my dress. I've made a bit of a mess. Clumsy of me, I know, a little too much wine I suspect. I'm sorry."

Kate feels exposed in her skimpy kimono, a treasured memento from her honeymoon in Hong Kong. It is made from silk, dyed black with embroidered brightly coloured flowers and a red sash. She wears it sometimes to please her husband, to remind him of the sexy geisha girl he wanted to marry. However, it now offers her scant protection from the prying eyes that are no doubt judging her slightly older figure with all its wear and tear. Pulling the sash tighter only seems to make matters worse. Kate turns away from Sylvie and walks to the wardrobe. Henry once said that he could always tell whether the accused were guilty of anything just by looking at their faces.

Sylvie closes the door and sits on the edge of the mattress. "You worry too much. I told Henry that he should clean it up. He was eager to please."

Kate smiles to herself at the thought of her husband trying to do anything in her kitchen. He will be lost in there on his own. "What about the rest of dinner?"

"I am not hungry. Henry can either wait or serve himself and eat alone."

"I don't believe that you really know my husband. Patience is not his strong suit."

Sitting cross legged on her husband's side of the bed, Sylvie watches her. The young woman puts down her wineglass and takes out a packet of Gauloises from her bag.

"Do you mind?" Sylvie offers her one, but Kate shakes her head. A filthy habit, Henry calls it. Kate had been a casual smoker once, quite liked a cigarette or two when out for the evening, usually when she was drunk. Savouring the flavour, the young woman uses her empty glass as an ashtray. "Your husband is a brilliant man. His sharp mind is one of his -- how do you say in English? -- most attractive qualities. His arguments are always well constructed and very persuasive, but he is not the reason I came to dinner. You asked me once if I was sleeping with him. I can see in your eyes that you might want to ask it again. The answer is still not yet."

Sylvie stretches out her legs, the black dress lifting for a moment. Kate's heart skips a beat as she glimpses the black French cut panties under the hem. Why did she notice that? Why is she still staring at them? Kate retreats to the far side of the room, positioning the bed as a barrier between them. Her instinct is to run, to find her husband and beg him to end all this madness, before something is broken that cannot be repaired. Kate is afraid of her confident companion, afraid of her own self-control, afraid of what will happen if they are left alone in the bedroom for much longer.

Kate opens the window to let in some fresh air. The sun is setting over the hills.

Sylvie watches Kate drawing the curtains. "Do you think someone will see us?"

"I don't think so."

"Then, why are you closing them?"

"Force of habit, I think. Does it bother you?"

"No, not at all." Sylvie pats the space on the bed covers beside her, puffing imperiously on her cigarette. "Please sit down, you're making me nervous." Like a rabbit on the road caught abruptly in the full glare of approaching headlights, Kate is frozen to the spot. "We know why we are here tonight. We have a duty, a promise to keep to your husband."

Of course, Sylvie is right. This evening is supposedly all about Henry. It is her husband, who has trapped her in this compromising situation. Kate doesn't have to accept any responsibility because, after all, this is only what he wants. If she sets clear boundaries, moves cautiously one step at a time, is it so wrong to be a little curious? Kate is straight, she knows she is, and she loves her husband too. Kate slinks towards her side of the marital bed and shuffles across the covers next to Sylvie, her knees clasped tightly to her chest. Sylvie lights another cigarette and passes it to her. Kate inhales, coughing as the acrid smoke scratches her throat. Henry will disapprove. The nicotine rush arrives, stronger than she remembers it, intoxicating. Kate feels light-headed, sinking into the soft bedsheets, her legs unfurled.