A rare shaft of January sunshine slants through the open roof, illuminating the steam as it rises from the main bath. I stand on the edge between two weathered sandstone columns. I’m thinking what it must have been like to be able to lower yourself into the water and float. I wonder if anyone would notice if I took off my boots and dipped my feet in the pool. But that would mean taking off my tights. I couldn’t possibly, not with the stream of tourists wandering past, obedient to the instructions of the audio tours given out in the foyer. There is even someone standing opposite me, across the water. She would see everything. I feel a little flush of embarrassment at the thought of it. Not that she seems at all interested in me. She is looking down, intent, a female Narcissus falling for the beautiful stranger she can never touch.

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The woman steps out of her heels and slides the expensive looking fawn jacket from her shoulders. She moves slowly, as if every movement is a meditation, folding her jacket and placing it next to the shoes. The matching skirt follows, slithering over her hips and puddling on the ground. This time she doesn’t bother to fold it. A pristine white blouse, buttons still done up, pulled off over her head. Tights next. She sloughs them off like an old skin.

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Underneath she has the most wonderful legs, long and smooth and golden. I feel a twinge of jealousy. My legs used to look like that. Down to underwear now. Understated cream lace hugging the perfect globes of her breasts and bottom. No lack and no excess. I’m reminded of one of Robert’s little sayings: anything more than a handful is a waste. One of those chauvinistic jokes that isn’t actually a joke.

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People are beginning to take notice. They are murmuring, pointing, milling around like cows, fascinated by the new thing but unwilling to go any closer. She looks up, straight at me, as if she knows that I’ve been watching the whole time. She keeps her eyes on me as she reaches around and undoes her bra strap. Cream lace falls to the floor with a limp flutter; a bird shot through the wing. I feel as if there is no-one else present. She hooks her thumbs into the waistband of her knickers and pushes them down, revealing a tapered line of dark blonde like an arrow. There are security guards approaching her, but they may as well be invisible. It’s just her and me. Arms raised, she closes her eyes and arcs her body, springing out and over the swirls of steam like a salmon.

 

That moment when she broke the surface of the water. It stayed in my mind all day. I left after that. I didn’t want to see the inevitable reassertion of reality. I didn’t want to know who she was, or watch as she was apprehended and escorted out of the baths.

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It’s Sunday morning, just past dawn, and I’m lying in bed. Robert snuffles next to me, face squashed into the pillow. It sounds like a pig hunting for truffles. One meaty arm is laid across my chest like an asthma attack. I slide out from underneath it and go to make a cup of tea, savouring the silence of the kitchen. I take my cup and stand in the doorway of the bedroom. I watch him sleep. He won’t stir until the afternoon. Saturday nights are the busiest of the week. I can’t put it off any longer.

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One bag. That’s all I need. I packed it months ago and hid it in the back of the wardrobe under all the shoes and bags and boxes and other things that accumulate over time spent in one place with one person.

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Too much time.

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His wallet and phone are on the bedside table. Even though I know he never wakes this early my heart thumps and my hands shake. I take a wad of twenties out of the wallet. He always did like having plenty of notes to flash– something to impress the girls. I put the wallet back and pick up my bag. When I leave, I lock the door of the flat behind me and push the key through the letterbox.

As I walk out onto the street I can see the woman’s face in my mind’s eye, hair otter-slick and water-dark as she breaks the surface.