Espresso Tales - Alexander Hanchett Smith [128]
Domenica became silent. She was looking down at the floor now. Pat had not even begun to tell her what she wanted to tell her, but could not now, after a story of such sadness. So she finished her coffee in silence and asked Domenica to excuse her until another moment, another day. Domenica understood. 82. A Great Sense of Purity
Pat reflected, in private, over what had happened. Peter had left a note that afternoon, pushed through the letter-box at the flat, with her name written on the outside of the folded paper. That picnic – remember? – it’s on! I’ll come and collect you at five. If you can’t make it, give me a call at this number. She had retired to her room – there was no sign of Bruce –
and re-read the note. When he had issued the invitation she had certainly not accepted it there and then. After she had overcome 270 A Great Sense of Purity
her initial surprise – it was not every day that one was invited to a nudist picnic, and in Moray Place Gardens too – she had said that she would think about it. That was all. And she had thought about it, and although she might have decided to go, she had not yet told him that.
She looked out of the window. It was a warm enough day –
much warmer than one would expect for early September – and this must have encouraged the nudists to go ahead with their picnic. But the weather in Edinburgh was notoriously changeable and sunlight could within minutes become deep gloom, empty skies become heavy with rain, snow give way to warm breezes. There was simply no telling.
By five that afternoon, when the bell rang, she was in a state of renewed indecision, although, if anything, she was now marginally more inclined to decline the invitation. She would tell Peter that she did not feel ready to go to a nudist picnic just yet. Though when would one be ready for such an event?
How did one prepare oneself ? Perhaps nudists had a comingout process in which they gradually came to terms with the fact that they felt more comfortable without any clothes. Or it could be a road to Damascus conversion, when the restrictiveness of clothes suddenly came home to one with blinding clarity.
She went to the door and was just about to open it when the thought occurred to her: would Peter be clad or unclad on the doorstep? It was an absurd thought, and she dismissed it immediately. And when she opened the door, there he was, dressed quite normally in a tee-shirt and jeans. But he was carrying a small bag with him, and that, she assumed, would be for the abandoned clothes.
He greeted her quite normally, as if he had come to collect her for the cinema or a restaurant rather than a nudist picnic.
“We should be getting along there soon,” he said, looking at his watch. “Things begin quite promptly.”
And what, she wondered, were these things?
“I’m not quite . . .” she began. But he did not seem to have heard her. He asked her instead whether she had a bag which A Great Sense of Purity
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she could bring. “Or you can share mine,” he said, pointing to his bag. “There’s enough room in there for both of us.”
“But . . .”
“No, that’s fine. This bag is big enough. You don’t have to bring anything else. That’s fine.”
“But I was . . .”
He tapped his watch. “Really, we must hurry. It’ll take us fifteen minutes to get there and I really don’t want to be late.”
She took the path of least resistance and left with him. After all, it was only a nudist picnic and everybody knew that nudists were harmless enough. So they walked back along Cumberland Street, Peter swinging the bag as he went, and Pat largely silent beside him.
“You’re quiet,” he said as they crossed Dundas Street. “You aren’t nervous, are you?”
She hesitated. “A bit, I suppose. I’ve never . . .”
He smiled and playfully put his arm about her shoulder. It was only there for a moment, and then he withdrew it. “There’s nothing to it. It’s very easy, you know. You won’t even notice it after a couple of minutes.”
“Did it take you long to get used to it?” she asked.