A Question of Guilt by Janet Tanner Page A

my parents led.
    â€˜Anyway,’ Mum went on, ‘he said he’s coming to see you tomorrow. Asked me to tell you.’
    â€˜Oh! Just like that! And why didn’t he call me on my mobile?’ For some reason, I was thoroughly affronted. How dare Tim assume he could neglect me for weeks on end and then expect me to be at his beck and call when he deigned to fit me into his busy schedule without even bothering to make another call to speak to me.
    â€˜I’m only repeating what he said.’ Mum didn’t actually sniff, but her disapproval didn’t escape me, all the same. ‘He’ll be here about ten. Apparently he’s rostered for an evening flight to Tenerife.’
    â€˜Honestly, he’s the limit!’ I snapped. ‘I suppose he thinks I’ve got nothing better to do, and he couldn’t be more wrong.’
    Mum raised an eyebrow at me and though she said nothing, the look she gave me spoke volumes.
    â€˜I know, I know,’ I muttered.
    â€˜I’m off to bed then.’ Mum rinsed her mug under the tap and loaded it into the dishwasher. ‘Your dad says he can never settle properly until I come up.’
    â€˜Yes, right.’ I grinned. I’d heard Dad’s snoring often enough when Mum was still downstairs finishing up in the kitchen.
    â€˜You shouldn’t be too long either. You don’t want to overdo things. And just be careful on the stairs.’
    â€˜I will.’ But I’d become pretty adept at hauling myself up with one crutch and the banister to support me. ‘I’ll just finish my tea and then I’ll call it a day. I am pretty tired.’
    â€˜Night, then, love.’
    â€˜Night, Mum.’
    After she’d gone I remained sitting at the kitchen table, my mug cradled between my hands, thinking not about my project but about Tim. The way I’d reacted when Mum had told me he was coming to see me tomorrow was confirmation, if confirmation was needed, that my feelings for him were not what they should be. We couldn’t go on like this, it wasn’t fair to either of us, and the time was coming when I was going to have to tell him it was over. But still I shrank inside at the prospect. Finding the right words – and the courage to say them – would be bad enough; I hated the thought of hurting him, even though he had been less than supportive to me these last months. Worse, there would be the practical aspects – moving out of the flat we shared, finding somewhere else to live. At least we weren’t married, but our lives were still tangled together in so many ways, and I found myself regretting having agreed to live with him.
    Thinking of that brought on a wave of nostalgia. It was painful to remember how happy and excited I’d been, buying little things to make the flat a home – bright cushions, a way-too-expensive lamp that I’d fallen in love with, a new cover for the duvet on the bed we were going to share. I’d bought domestic bits and bobs, too – a rolling pin and pastry cutters (unused except for mince pies at Christmas), a roasting pan, even a blowtorch to toast crème brûlées when we had friends for dinner. Looking back now it felt as if I’d been playing at house, and perhaps I was. But we had been happy. Very happy. For a time. Falling asleep in the arms of the man I loved, waking up beside him, making plans together, making love whenever and wherever we wanted within our own four walls . . . it had been wonderful while it lasted, and recalling it now brought tears to my eyes.
    But it wasn’t working, and if I was honest with myself, it hadn’t been working for a very long time. If I could feel so resentful of Tim, if I preferred to be free to carry on my investigation instead of spending time with him, if I could no longer make excuses for him, and, more importantly, didn’t want to, then I really had to tell him it was over.
    How would he