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A consequence of this peripatetic existence was that she and I had lost touch, mobile phone technology not being then what it is today. However, I recall hearing that she’d had a baby a few months after we parted: I guess Claire was that erstwhile child.“So,” I said, “where’s Arturo? That was his name, wasn’t it?”I’d never met her husband, and there was no wedding ring on Jazz’s finger.She shrugged. “He split, years ago. We were in Catalonia – or maybe it was Tuscany. A very fit young trapeze artist joined us and, long story short, they went off together.”I’d opened a bottle of Merlot, and now filled glasses for Jazz, my wife, and me. We considered the girls to be a bit too young, although when there was just us, the girls were allowed a little wine with their dinners.“Anyway, it’s lovely to see you both,” I said, smiling. I wasn’t being false: Jazz and I had history – albeit about fifteen years previously when we’d both been in our early teens, and she looked as beautiful to me now. One wall was all mirrors. On the night stands on either side of the bed were two lamps. They had been draped with a batik-style fabric, which cast an interesting play of shadows and colours on the bed.And Eric himself — Caroline had said he was good looking, but she hadn't said anything about how tall he was, his curly hair, not quite dark enough to be black but close enough, his sinewy physique. Those chiselled cheekbones. Those deep, brown eyes.As she removed her clothes, she thought about how she had arrived here. She draped her blouse and skirt over the back of the chaise lounge, and caught a glimpse of her body in the mirrors. A few months ago, she would have shuddered at seeing her body exposed that way, but the physical scars from the operation had almost completely healed. She placed her hands under her full, round breasts, rubbing her thumbs over her hardening nipples. At least she still had that lovely sensitivity there. She had always imagined there were wires running from.
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