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her short story In Hot Wat SHE WAS CONFIDING THINGS most girls never talk about, especially not to a guy they haven't met before. He was nodding, appearing interested, while his body amid the bubbles was experiencing new sensations, and his mind was trapped in the place where it used to spend its evenings. A woman in a yellow smock pushed through the swinging doors and saw a ginger-haired woman talking to a man wearing glasses. picked up a mop left lying against the white tiles and walked out, trailing twirls of steam. The man's hand swished at the spa's lightly frothing surface. He gazed at the woman across the pool. "You're such a good listener," she said. The man smiled. "Gazza was out boozing most nights, then he'd come home wanting sex. Wham bam thank you Mam! Can you imagine how that feels for a girl?" The man stared at her. This woman with her openness and honest blue eyes seemed normal in a way that he'd forgotten was possible. Her voice was soft and pleasant and she laughed from time to time, even though she was upset. "It's good that you can talk about it," he replied. "Gazza never did. He bottled everything up. Then, one night, just after tea…". "The bottle exploded?" "No," she chuckled. "He said he was bored with life, sick to death of everything, especially himself. Then he packed a suitcase and left." Her voice began to break. "He wouldn't talk to me. I had to let him go." The man looked away. The features of a different woman flashed across his mind. Eyes harsh and triumphant. An unloving voice, accusing and abusing. Words like machine-gun bullets, ripping and raging across the dinner table. And a little girl clinging to him, crying. 124 | February/March 2012 | HER MAGAZINE She looked around, He shuddered, and then faced the woman in the pool. "Are you getting over it?" "Sort of. Trouble is, I still love Gazza." She screwed up her eyes. "You can't love someone for five years and then suddenly unlove them. Every time the phone rings, I'm like 'Please God, let it be Gazza!' and I rush to answer it!" She fell silent and leaned her head back against the side of the pool, her face towards the ceiling. How lovely she is, thought the man. 'Unreal, to be here, with this nice female, trusting me, talking to me.' He moved a little to the side, catching a hot jet of water that pulsated against the small of his back, stretched out his legs and let them float on the fizzing surface. "Anyway, my name's Bill," he said. "I'm Jan." She smiled at him. "What about you? Are you in a relationship?" "No," Bill replied, after a pause. "I was. Until a couple of months ago." "Oh. What was her name?" prompted Jan. Bill grimaced, running a hand through thinning hair. "Rose," he muttered. "Rose," repeated Jan. Bill opened his mouth, then shut it, and closed his eyes. Jan stared at him. He seemed to be in his late 30s and quite good-looking, although his face was lined. There was a scratch on his right cheek and dark shadows under his eyes. A few minutes passed. "Are you okay, Bill?" "Yes. Just tired. I've been a bit worn down with Family Court stuff lately." "Now I feel awful. You come to relax and here's me wearing my heart on my sleeve, not that I'm actually wearing any sleeves at this precise moment." Bill grinned. "It's okay. You're very refreshing. I'm pleased you feel able to talk to me." er "You are nice," said Jan. "Do you have someone to talk to?" Bill laughed and said something she didn't catch. He twisted himself around and let the gushing jets of water play on his front. Then he yawned, stood, stepped out of the pool, tiptoed across the cold tiles and picked up his towel. He glanced at the woman in the water. "Well, I'm off. Gotta go. I enjoyed meeting you." "Look," said Jan. "I'm sorry I burdened you with all that stuff about me." "It's okay. I didn't mind a bit. Honest." "Well, thanks, anyway. I feel better after talking to you." "It's good that you can talk," he said. "Not everybody can." He stared at her for a few seconds, nodded and left. Jan stayed a minute or two longer, with wrinkled brow, looking across the pool. On the surface the water continued to play and bubble. But underneath, where her body was, and where his had been, among the pulsating jets, she thought, it agitates, turbulent and hidden. This doesn't make sense Like the mind of a silent, troubled man. She leapt out, grabbed her towel and ran to the reception area, arriving, dripping wet, just as Bill was about to leave the building. She stopped him, and said she'd love to have him round for dinner some time. He hesitated, and then agreed. Saturday evening, a week later, Jan was dashing from cupboards to table, from oven to bench, chattering, gesturing with pot or knife or whatever else was in her hand, occasionally flashing Bill a smile, blue eyes twinkling and ginger hair glowing under the orange shaded light. Like a cat in unfamiliar territory, Bill was scanning Jan's dining room, observing travel posters, a well-stocked bookcase, an oak table, hessian covered walls, a cane basket, a knotted floor rug, a tracksuit flung casually in the corner and a wisp of smoke curling from a delicate jar on a