A Sentimental Traitor by Michael Dobbs

breezes and rain. She and Harry had been going out for nearly four months and he knew she was growing tired of
stopping over, living out of an overnight bag. The time had come for her to make a deeper mark on his life and he couldn’t find a single reason to object, to prevent her from claiming some
cupboard space, beginning the process of manoeuvring alongside him, except . . .
    He’d been married twice before. His first wife, Julia, had filled his life in a manner that made him question and revalue everything around him, with the sum always greater than what had
gone before. She’d begun gathering together all those loose parts of his young character and tying them neatly together when she had died, killed in a skiing accident for which Harry would
for ever blame himself. She’d been pregnant, too. Perhaps that was why he had punished himself second time around with Melanie, a woman who loved to turn men’s heads, couldn’t
stop, even after she and Harry had got married. He thought she was somewhere in Cheshire now, married to an older man who made cheese. A lot of cheese, for she had expensive tastes. Since Mel, many
women had passed through Harry’s life. Some he had loved, but none had been able to keep up with him. His fault. Until Jemma. She had been careful not to make demands, even to hint that he
should slow down, but he had begun to acknowledge that perhaps it was time he did. And with Christmas just a couple of days away, maybe it was time to ask her to hang around a little longer, empty
the overnight bag.
    ‘You still planning on going to your parents for Christmas?’ he asked, hoping the question sounded casual as she towelled her hair dry. She flicked it back over her head.
    ‘They’re expecting me.’
    She was an Edinburgh girl, with eyes that reminded him of sun on the firth. She was early thirties, ten years younger than Harry and all grown up, but it was an outcome her parents seemed
ill-inclined to share. They were Church of Scotland, small lives lived out in a pebble-dash terrace in the suburb of Livingstone. There would be no room there for Harry, except in her bed, which
they wouldn’t allow, not at Christmas or at any other time unless they were married. London ways had never proved popular in Livingstone, not with neighbours peering from behind every
curtain.
    ‘I’d like you to come, Harry.’ She bit her lip, afraid she sounded too serious. ‘It would be the sofa in the downstairs room, and the floorboards creak.’ She
laughed, trying to make light of it.
    ‘Not with you?’
    ‘No. Anyway, I still sleep in my old metal-framed bed. The springs complain like a shutter in a storm. Not your style.’
    ‘No,’ he sighed, as she wrapped the towel around herself.
    She stared at him, searching. ‘I don’t have to go. I could stay here. In London.’
    There it was. They both knew what it meant. Christmas together, here, in Harry’s home. Cupboard space. He liked this woman, knew he wanted more of her, accepted that she had a right to ask
and to be taken seriously.
    He looked away, broke her gaze. ‘Better not let your parents down, if you’ve promised.’
    A cloud passed across her eyes, the sun gone. ‘No, you’re probably right. Silly of me.’
    ‘We’re still on for New Year’s?’
    ‘If that’s what you want.’
    ‘Of course.’
    A dullness had crept into her voice; he’d hurt her, couldn’t help it. He was scared, couldn’t afford to get this wrong again, hurt her even more, and himself most of all. Yet
even as he argued with himself he heard Julia’s voice – ‘You’re a total tosser, Jones!’ And he knew she was right.
    ‘Let me get dressed, will you?’ Jemma said softly. ‘A girl needs a little privacy.’
    One moment wanting to share their lives, the next demanding privacy. He wanted to say something, to apologize, put things right, but already she had turned her back. He rolled off the bed and
went downstairs to drown in another