could tell he was surprised. ‘Sorry, I thought it’d be a good time . . . it’s nearly ten.’
When they were together it was rare for them to stay in bed later than seven-thirty; they both naturally woke around that time. And ten o’clock was when Jo would have a break from writing, a cup of tea. She suddenly resented him knowing this about her.
‘Late night,’ was all she would say, but she took pleasure in the slight narrowing of his eyes as he took in her dishevelled state.
She held the door for him. He passed her, so close she could have touched him. They both, from habit fostered over decades, walked through to the kitchen, where her husband leaned against the work surface next to the kettle, his hands behind him, holding on to the edge of the wood as if for support.
‘I just need to pick up a couple of maps and a few more books,’ he said. Lawrence had a huge collection of maps from a lifetime of travelling, which stretched over three shelves in his study.
‘You’re going away?’
‘Umm . . . yeah . . . last week in August.’
‘Where?’ She asked because she knew what his answer would be, and she knew it would hurt her, and she wanted it to. She particularly wanted him to see that she was hurt.
He looked suitably embarrassed. ‘Sardinia.’
‘So you, with your fertile brain and a zillion maps, couldn’t find anywhere else to go on this vast planet? You had to choose
our
place, the place we’ve been to a thousand times . . . together?’
‘I wanted . . .’ Lawrence stopped, knowing, perhaps, that whatever he said he would be digging a deeper hole for himself.
‘You wanted to what? Show Arkadius?’
He didn’t reply, just shifted awkwardly against the work surface. Jo sat down on a kitchen chair. She was battling a third presence in the room. But it wasn’t Arkadius so much as their decades-old and hitherto unquestioned love hovering between them like an impatient ghost, waiting to be acknowledged. She could tell that he was sensing it too. All they had together now was reduced to these stilted, angry sound-bites.
‘I still haven’t heard from Cassie.’ Lawrence may mistakenly have thought this was safer ground.
‘She’s embarrassed. She doesn’t know what to say to you.’
His lips pursed. ‘What shall I do?’
Not my problem, Jo thought, enjoying a moment of Schadenfreude that her husband wasn’t having it quite all his own way.
‘Keep trying, I suppose.’
‘If you speak to her—’ He stopped, obviously seeing the look in her eye. ‘No, OK. I won’t ask.’
Jo was dying for a cup of tea – her head was emitting a regular dull, dehydrated thud – but she didn’t want to offer him one, then have to sit with him, watch him across the table, remind herself of what was now clearly the past.
Lawrence drew himself up, away from the side. ‘I’ll just get what I need,’ he said, still hovering, brushing his white hair back from his face, waiting for something, she wasn’t sure what. ‘Was it a fun night?’ he finally asked.
‘Yeah, great,’ she said. ‘A friend of Donna’s, a Swedish guy . . . we got a bit wasted.’ She tried to sound casual, as if this were something she did all the time, deliberately not mentioning Donna’s presence. Let him think it was more than just a few Grey Geese.
‘Oh . . . good. That’s good.’
She thought he was doing the same thing in return, playing the same game of studied nonchalance. Or maybe he really didn’t care that she’d been out with another man. Maybe he was relieved.
When he left soon after, his precious maps of Sardinia tucked discreetly between two books so as not to give offence, she made herself the tea she was longing for and sat down, mulling over this latest uncomfortable encounter with her husband. It was then that she suddenly realized it was Lawrence’s birthday. She’d remembered it all week, of course, but the vodka had done its worst. She sat up straighter. Had he intentionally chosen today
When they were together it was rare for them to stay in bed later than seven-thirty; they both naturally woke around that time. And ten o’clock was when Jo would have a break from writing, a cup of tea. She suddenly resented him knowing this about her.
‘Late night,’ was all she would say, but she took pleasure in the slight narrowing of his eyes as he took in her dishevelled state.
She held the door for him. He passed her, so close she could have touched him. They both, from habit fostered over decades, walked through to the kitchen, where her husband leaned against the work surface next to the kettle, his hands behind him, holding on to the edge of the wood as if for support.
‘I just need to pick up a couple of maps and a few more books,’ he said. Lawrence had a huge collection of maps from a lifetime of travelling, which stretched over three shelves in his study.
‘You’re going away?’
‘Umm . . . yeah . . . last week in August.’
‘Where?’ She asked because she knew what his answer would be, and she knew it would hurt her, and she wanted it to. She particularly wanted him to see that she was hurt.
He looked suitably embarrassed. ‘Sardinia.’
‘So you, with your fertile brain and a zillion maps, couldn’t find anywhere else to go on this vast planet? You had to choose
our
place, the place we’ve been to a thousand times . . . together?’
‘I wanted . . .’ Lawrence stopped, knowing, perhaps, that whatever he said he would be digging a deeper hole for himself.
‘You wanted to what? Show Arkadius?’
He didn’t reply, just shifted awkwardly against the work surface. Jo sat down on a kitchen chair. She was battling a third presence in the room. But it wasn’t Arkadius so much as their decades-old and hitherto unquestioned love hovering between them like an impatient ghost, waiting to be acknowledged. She could tell that he was sensing it too. All they had together now was reduced to these stilted, angry sound-bites.
‘I still haven’t heard from Cassie.’ Lawrence may mistakenly have thought this was safer ground.
‘She’s embarrassed. She doesn’t know what to say to you.’
His lips pursed. ‘What shall I do?’
Not my problem, Jo thought, enjoying a moment of Schadenfreude that her husband wasn’t having it quite all his own way.
‘Keep trying, I suppose.’
‘If you speak to her—’ He stopped, obviously seeing the look in her eye. ‘No, OK. I won’t ask.’
Jo was dying for a cup of tea – her head was emitting a regular dull, dehydrated thud – but she didn’t want to offer him one, then have to sit with him, watch him across the table, remind herself of what was now clearly the past.
Lawrence drew himself up, away from the side. ‘I’ll just get what I need,’ he said, still hovering, brushing his white hair back from his face, waiting for something, she wasn’t sure what. ‘Was it a fun night?’ he finally asked.
‘Yeah, great,’ she said. ‘A friend of Donna’s, a Swedish guy . . . we got a bit wasted.’ She tried to sound casual, as if this were something she did all the time, deliberately not mentioning Donna’s presence. Let him think it was more than just a few Grey Geese.
‘Oh . . . good. That’s good.’
She thought he was doing the same thing in return, playing the same game of studied nonchalance. Or maybe he really didn’t care that she’d been out with another man. Maybe he was relieved.
When he left soon after, his precious maps of Sardinia tucked discreetly between two books so as not to give offence, she made herself the tea she was longing for and sat down, mulling over this latest uncomfortable encounter with her husband. It was then that she suddenly realized it was Lawrence’s birthday. She’d remembered it all week, of course, but the vodka had done its worst. She sat up straighter. Had he intentionally chosen today
Similar Books
