Carried away for a minute already in the short walk home she'd

Carried away for a minute, already, in the short walk home, she'd been carried back. Christine would have put it differently, later did put it differently: she'd been a virgin, hadn't planned it, went much further than she meant. Was she mad with me? She seemed willing enough at the time, I told myself, as boys in those days tended to tell themselves. I felt elated, but suppressed the elation out of gallantry, knowing from her face, grave as the altar, it would be improper to show pleasure. It happened like a silent movie, me braced for the sound of the front door key, Christine her usual mute self. She had no time to make a noise even if she'd wanted to: we were having sex and then (my fault, too excited, gone in a flash) we had had it, past perfect not continuous.We dressed without a word and walked home with even fewer. It was slow going until one Saturday we were left alone in the house of a friend of hers whose parents were out, and we jumped a few stages - the lock of blonde hair stuck to her brow, the black choker on her pale neck, her white body and me inside it on the nylon carpet.

Not any more ..."It's what I'd hoped she'd say, yet feared she would. Beyond the vain part of me that wants to know that I mean something to her still (if only as a measure of what she felt about me then), there's also guilt at how our relationship ended, and a worry she's been in trouble ever since.We'd gone out unexcitingly for some weeks - pictures, a walk, a drive in my parents' car (I'd just passed the test), a drink where they wouldn't ask our age, preliminaries, petting, an understanding I'd not get far if I tried it on, all that. It feels a bit odd coming here, to be honest.""It feels odd to me, too. But I meant: how are you in general?""Yes, I meant that too, OK.""I heard you were married.""Was, past tense, yes Quite a bit back. On her left wrist, the muscles are taut under the Nile delta of veins Her skin has come back to me now.

It was white and unblemished when the rest of us had complexions like cheese- graters It still is."So how are you?" I ask."OK. I just don't like what you're saying."Which wasn't true: I hated what she was saying because I did love Christine, or had persuaded myself I loved her, or was about to, to spite my mother.I order another whisky, and this time Christine joins me, a relief: she's only been listening, but listening can be tense, too Her nails are in her palms. She seems a perfectly pleasant girl, but you're still not 18, and she's barely 16 and ...""What about love, mum?""Do you love her?""I'm making a general point - isn't love the most important thing?""Yes, but you mustn't rush into anything Are you really in love?""I'm not in love with anyone. That you're too young to be making commitments yet.""I'm not doing.""You don't see anyone but her at weekends now It's serious, just the two of you, not a crowd.