Free Weekend by William McIlvanney Page A

pointed to her, he pointed towards himself. ‘Soon now,’ he mouthed in English. (He must have heard her ordering.)
    She smiled dismissively but she did not take her eyes away from him. He nodded sombrely. He pointed to her again, he pointed again to himself.
    He made a gesture with both hands towards the street. She knew that he meant they should go off together. He mouthed again in English: ‘I have a place.’
    She turned her head away. She knew she wouldn’t dare to look back at him. She lifted the slip of paper that was her bill. She cursed the almost indecipherable faint blue numbers on the paper, afraid that he would come across and interpret them for her. She left what she decided was the price of the brandy and a tip. She stood up and walked away in the direction opposite to which the man had gestured.
    She had been walking away ever since, she felt. Would she ever find the nerve to stop and turn back towards the risk? All she had done with the weekend so far was listen to Andrew Lawson’s lecture and phone three times to try to find out how Jason was getting on. But nobody had answered the phone at Alan’s place. Nobody needed her there. Nobody needed her anywhere.
    Now here she was, sipping wine alone, unless you counted Marion lying like a figure carved in stone. She could have been doing this as easily at home. She stood up with the glass in her hand and gazed at herself in the full-length mirror fixed to the wall. She thought she was looking good. She struck what she felt was a seductive pose and stared at herself provocatively,as if daring the woman in the mirror to step out of it and merge with her.
    Perhaps the woman needed more encouragement from her. If she hadn’t had the nerve to put on anything daring in public, why shouldn’t she at least do it in private? Maybe she just needed practice. She was already wearing beautiful underwear and suspender belt and stockings. She had even put on her highest heels, as if she were drinking in a brothel, waiting for her next client, with Marion the unwitting sleeping partner. Why not complete the ensemble?
    She drained her glass and put it on the desk against the window. She took the dress from the wardrobe and wriggled into it. She put on the black leather belt. The dress showed a lot of leg.
    She contemplated herself in the mirror. She had an urge to walk up and down but was afraid her heels on the thin carpet might waken Marion. She wasn’t satisfied. The dressing-room wasn’t where you performed. She smiled to herself. You needed a stage for that, even if the theatre was empty. She smiled at herself again. In her case, especially if the theatre was empty. Why not? They must all be in their beds by now. She giggled. If anybody saw her, maybe she could pretend she was sleep-walking. If she couldn’t brass it out under these conditions, when would she ever?
    She refilled the glass and drank the wine in one gulp, trying to make sure that the fuel for her boldness didn’t run out. She put the glass down and looked at Marion as she tiptoed across the room. Opening the door, she waved theatrically to the sleeping figure. She stepped out into the corridor and closed the door softly.
    She listened. There was no sound. She walked regally along empty, carpeted corridors until she came to the mainstaircase. She paused there. The ridiculousness of what she was up to put a wobble in her self-confidence, like a broken heel. Surely she wasn’t really going to do this. Yes she was, some desperate dread of returning sheepishly to that room was insisting. If she went back now, the door she closed would close on her for good. She could always say she had thought the bar was still open. Swingers were like that.
    The way she came down the staircase, Rhett Butler might have been waiting for her at the bottom. Through the glass door in the hall below, she could see most of the reception area. No one was there. In the silence of early morning the building seemed to hum, like a