discovery. While the real Claire was ostensibly a happily-married professional woman, this Claire was no such thing. She was a creature of the shadows, a betrayer of those who loved her.
Her eyes filled with tears .
The deluge beat on the car roof and the streets ran with water.
Claire switched on the windscreen wipers, but the rain was too heavy.
She could not see where she was going.
7
DAVID
The pathology of suspicion must be an interesting study, if you have the stomach for it.
The germ of disquiet, once planted, inveigles its way into your consciousness and starts to connect new neural pathways in the most insidious fashion. The term affair jumps out at you from newspaper articles and television shows, as if you had never encountered it before. Your objectivity erodes away. Something flutters around inside you. Your ears become more attuned to the nuances of words. You begin analysing your partner’s choice of phrase. Trivial events assume an air of importance. The ground under your feet is suddenly less solid.
Despite the fact that I received no further unpleasant phone calls or any more anonymous letters about Claire, my mind inaugurated subtle departures from its normal routines.
M y internal dialogue moved away from the question of who might want to poison my peace of mind, and turned towards the issue of whether there might be any truth in the noxious assertion that whispered to me in the moments of silence. I started to take more of an interest in my wife’s casual remarks, her references to individuals.
Had the red flag of disloyalty been raised at any other time in our marriage, I should have paid it scant regard. But I recognised, through the haze of uncertainty, that over the last couple of years a distance had grown between Claire and me. There were many things we no longer discussed, although on the surface we continued as before. I wondered whether complacency over our marriage had disabled my critical faculties.
The frequency of our lovemaking had declined. Our conversations had become focused on everyday matters, the triviality of routine.
I found myself looking at the framed photographs of our Registry Office wedding. The eyes of the happy couple were bright and disingenuous. Some scales had fallen from those eyes in the years since.
And yet I knew Claire. I knew the kind, feeling person she was. But like all knowledge, conjecture sits at the base of the pyramid. We only know what we assume we know. Some assumptions are buried so deep in our subconscious that we no longer see them: they are part of our programming. That Claire and I would be together forever was not something I had ever questioned. It was a catechism.
I put aside the manuscript that Anna had given me after I read the phrase, I was a fool to trust her so completely . Like the comet that the ancients took as a sign of evil days to come, it seemed portentous. I placed Madame Bovary back on the bookshelf for the same reason. The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes seemed a safer choice.
I repeated to myself I was being asinine. Claire was a busy woman. She juggled a career and a household. How the hell could she find the time to conduct an affair? And with whom for God’s sake?
It could be someone she met through work , the synthesised voice told me. Have you noticed how many late meetings she goes to these days?
She’s never stayed away overnight , I replied.
Not yet, maybe , said the voice.
Braddock Motors’ business was booming. The January turnover figures turned out to be a blip. Sales of the revamped Vectra were good regardless of the car experts’ concerns about build quality. In popularity it was challenging Ford’s UK dominance. The management at Vauxhall’s Luton plant was cock-a-hoop. Our upmarket ranges were also performing well, and already it looked as though this year’s bonuses were going to be good. Even the Old Bugger appeared happy – or as happy as he ever gets. Perhaps the world would
Her eyes filled with tears .
The deluge beat on the car roof and the streets ran with water.
Claire switched on the windscreen wipers, but the rain was too heavy.
She could not see where she was going.
7
DAVID
The pathology of suspicion must be an interesting study, if you have the stomach for it.
The germ of disquiet, once planted, inveigles its way into your consciousness and starts to connect new neural pathways in the most insidious fashion. The term affair jumps out at you from newspaper articles and television shows, as if you had never encountered it before. Your objectivity erodes away. Something flutters around inside you. Your ears become more attuned to the nuances of words. You begin analysing your partner’s choice of phrase. Trivial events assume an air of importance. The ground under your feet is suddenly less solid.
Despite the fact that I received no further unpleasant phone calls or any more anonymous letters about Claire, my mind inaugurated subtle departures from its normal routines.
M y internal dialogue moved away from the question of who might want to poison my peace of mind, and turned towards the issue of whether there might be any truth in the noxious assertion that whispered to me in the moments of silence. I started to take more of an interest in my wife’s casual remarks, her references to individuals.
Had the red flag of disloyalty been raised at any other time in our marriage, I should have paid it scant regard. But I recognised, through the haze of uncertainty, that over the last couple of years a distance had grown between Claire and me. There were many things we no longer discussed, although on the surface we continued as before. I wondered whether complacency over our marriage had disabled my critical faculties.
The frequency of our lovemaking had declined. Our conversations had become focused on everyday matters, the triviality of routine.
I found myself looking at the framed photographs of our Registry Office wedding. The eyes of the happy couple were bright and disingenuous. Some scales had fallen from those eyes in the years since.
And yet I knew Claire. I knew the kind, feeling person she was. But like all knowledge, conjecture sits at the base of the pyramid. We only know what we assume we know. Some assumptions are buried so deep in our subconscious that we no longer see them: they are part of our programming. That Claire and I would be together forever was not something I had ever questioned. It was a catechism.
I put aside the manuscript that Anna had given me after I read the phrase, I was a fool to trust her so completely . Like the comet that the ancients took as a sign of evil days to come, it seemed portentous. I placed Madame Bovary back on the bookshelf for the same reason. The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes seemed a safer choice.
I repeated to myself I was being asinine. Claire was a busy woman. She juggled a career and a household. How the hell could she find the time to conduct an affair? And with whom for God’s sake?
It could be someone she met through work , the synthesised voice told me. Have you noticed how many late meetings she goes to these days?
She’s never stayed away overnight , I replied.
Not yet, maybe , said the voice.
Braddock Motors’ business was booming. The January turnover figures turned out to be a blip. Sales of the revamped Vectra were good regardless of the car experts’ concerns about build quality. In popularity it was challenging Ford’s UK dominance. The management at Vauxhall’s Luton plant was cock-a-hoop. Our upmarket ranges were also performing well, and already it looked as though this year’s bonuses were going to be good. Even the Old Bugger appeared happy – or as happy as he ever gets. Perhaps the world would
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