The Red Coat

Lavinia told Hugo she wanted an evening of old songs and bad dancing for her thirty-seventh birthday, then waited for him to improve it.

He was sitting on her sofa, holding the leaflet she had found at the library. A small band would play in an upstairs room at the hotel near the station. There would be food beforehand if they booked. The photographs promised no sophistication at all.

“I’d like to go,” he said.

“You don’t have to.”

He looked up.

She made herself continue before he could help. “No. That’s the sentence I wasn’t going to say. I want you to come with me. Do you want to?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a Friday.”

“I’m free. I’ve checked.”

“The meal looks rather ordinary.”

“I have survived my own tart.”

She laughed. It was the first time since the lost Saturday that she had felt the joke arrive without checking whether she had forgiven too quickly.

“Then I’ll book it.”

“Please do.”

Three weeks had passed since the exhibition. They had eaten together, walked, kissed, disagreed about whether a neighbour’s barking dog was lonely or simply industrious. He had not made one grand gesture. She had not pretended she never remembered the unused tickets.

He asked what time to arrive and whether she wanted to walk or take a taxi. She said walk, unless it rained, and dinner at seven. He wrote nothing down in front of her. Later, without being asked, he sent a message confirming he had put the whole evening aside.

She was absurdly pleased. She was also angry that reliability could now delight her so much. Both feelings could exist; she did not need to choose one as the official account.

· · ·Scene break

Benita came round on the afternoon of the birthday and found Lavinia holding two coats.

“Red,” she said.

“You haven’t seen the dress.”

“I know the coat.”

It was the one Lavinia had almost given away three winters ago. The lining had been mended twice, and the colour still made her feel more visible than she was accustomed to permitting. She had taken out a sober black coat as an alternative, an unnecessary act of camouflage.

Benita put a small wrapped present on the table and sat down.

“How is he?”

“Trying.”

“Is that the favourable version?”

“Mostly.”

Lavinia described the booking. Benita listened, then said, “And have you told him it matters?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“I used to tell people it didn’t.”

“I know.”

Lavinia looked at her.

“You’d tell people it didn’t matter,” Benita said, “and then hope they would know it did. Did you think that was a test?”

“I thought it was dignity.”

“How exhausting.”

Benita’s own walking weekend had involved rain, two acceptable hills and one openly rebellious afternoon in shops. She was not offering advice from a life of untroubled clarity. Lavinia was grateful for that. They had tea, opened the present, and argued about whether birthday candles belonged on an individual pastry.

At half past six, after Benita had left, Lavinia put on the red coat. Hugo rang the bell at twenty-five to seven. He was wearing the dark jacket she liked and holding a small bunch of flowers, not a box large enough to contain an apology.

“Happy birthday,” he said.

She let him in and kissed him. His hand settled at her waist, then paused until she leaned closer. The attention was familiar enough now to make her warm before his mouth touched hers.

“You look lovely,” he said when she drew back.

“I know. Benita chose the coat.”

“A formidable adviser.”

“In a narrow field.”

They put the flowers in water and left with time to walk slowly. She took his arm because she liked how close it put them and because the pavement narrowed near the station. Neither reason needed to conceal the other.

The hotel dining room had dark wooden chairs and a menu with no ambitions beyond feeding people. Their table was by a radiator that had begun working too enthusiastically for September. Hugo took her coat and hung it where it could be reached, then sat opposite her.

She watched him read the menu. He looked up.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

His eyebrows rose slightly. She sighed.

“I’m checking whether you’re wishing you’d chosen somewhere else.”

“I’m choosing potatoes.”

“I know. I keep doing it.”

He set down the menu.

“I was hoping you would notice how reliably I arrived.”

She stared, then laughed so loudly that the couple at the next table smiled.

“Were you?”

“Disgracefully. I put on the jacket and thought, this ought to count for something.”

“For putting on clothes?”

“For keeping an arrangement. But yes, apparently I wanted credit for both.”

The honesty relieved her more than perfect conduct would have done. He could still want praise; he could recognise the want without making it her job to satisfy.

“I am pleased you came,” she said. “I don’t want to distribute medals.”

“I shall bear the disappointment.”

“And I don’t want to spend my birthday inspecting you for resentment.”

“Then let’s eat something.”

They did. The potatoes were good, the fish less successful, the pudding worth sharing. Lavinia told him a story about an argument at work that had ended when someone checked the original form. Hugo made a dry observation about the surprising usefulness of reading, and she nearly spilled her water.

Upstairs, the band was tuning. They found seats near enough to see the musicians’ faces and far enough from the speaker to talk. Hugo disliked the first song, which improved it for Lavinia. She told him so; he said he had expected to be used cruelly on this occasion.

By the fourth song there were enough people dancing to hide their incompetence. She asked him. He stood at once, then stopped himself from making a joke about obedience and simply took her hand.

They danced better than they had in his sitting room, mostly because there was more room to go wrong. She turned too soon once and collided with him. He laughed, brought her back into step and looked at her with the open pleasure she had wanted to believe she could ask for.

“This,” she said.

“What?”

“This is what I wanted.”

He drew her a little closer when she moved towards him. “I’m glad you asked.”

She let herself accept the answer without reducing the request afterwards. It had cost him an evening he could have spent elsewhere. That was what choosing meant. It was not evidence that she had been selfish enough to win.

They stayed for the last set. Nobody called them away. When they walked home the air was cool enough for the red coat, and Hugo held her hand in its deep pocket, an awkward arrangement they both preferred to letting go.

At her door she invited him in for tea. They drank it on the sofa, shoes off, and she kissed him until the cups had become cold. He was warm against her; she liked the weight of his arm and the way he listened when she asked him to stay close for a moment without kissing.

“A good birthday?” he asked eventually.

“Yes.”

She could have added a qualification to prove she was not easily won. She could have thanked him as if he had bestowed the whole evening. Instead she put her face against his shoulder and enjoyed the birthday she had asked for, with the man who had chosen to come.