you.’ He tosses away the television remote and begins to rise.
‘No, Archie. I want to be alone. I’ll be fine. It’s still light.’
He’s going to argue and she knows she’s being unfair on him, that in not allowing him to explain she’s putting him into the worst of all positions. She knows, too, that he’ll be concerned about her feelings and about how this revelation might affect their relationship. She turns away abruptly, angry at these new layers of complication in a world that has already become uncertain.
‘Prince! Here boy!’ As the dog scuttles eagerly towards her, she reaches for his lead. ‘Go to bed, Archie.’
But she knows he won’t. She knows that when she gets back, he’ll be in his studio, losing himself in his music.
She sleeps fitfully until Archie slips in beside her, when the sheer familiarity of his presence brings enough respite from her thoughts to lull her into a deeper slumber.
It doesn’t last long. Susie sees the dawn probe its way through the fabric of the curtains, the fingers of light poking into her sore eyes with an insistence that won’t be denied. Ironically, maybe because she isn’t trying to be quiet, she manages to get out of bed without disturbing Archie. In the morning light, the whole thing seems unreal once more, its reality grounded only in side-effects, in exhaustion and a mild headache lurking behind her eyes. She pads down the stairs, avoiding the creaky boards so as not to wake Archie. She needs time alone.
Her desk is in the corner of the living room, underneath a window that faces the trees at the back of the cottage. The opening is a deep one and the window itself small, the dimensions evidence of the age of the cottage. A few days ago – before Elsie – she found the time to pick a bunch of snowdrops, but now she notices that she has allowed their water to stagnate and become cloudy and they’re already brown. Irritated by her neglect, she grabs the vase and marches through to the kitchen, drops the flowers into the compost bin and returns, without the reminder of her sloppiness, to her work.
She hears a faint creak above her head as she opens her briefcase and tries to settle to her papers. Archie is stirring. She knows she must talk to him because she needs to know his side of the story, but she shies away from the conversation, reluctant to start along the road of discovery.
I don’t want to know.
You have to know.
It’s too difficult.
You can’t hide from the truth, now that it has found you.
Archie knows how to take care of you. You can trust your husband.
But he lied to you. Her resentment is fuelled by sleeplessness. He’s been living a lie.
She bins four brochures and two annual reports, their crisp, colorful, expensive covers gazing reproachfully out of the wicker basket at her. Listen, she fires back at them irritably, I didn’t ask for you to be posted to me. I’m too busy for you. A sheaf of briefing papers from a large charity are more matched to her mood and she glances through them quickly, highlighting a sentence here, a paragraph there with a fluorescent orange marker.
Archie appears. ‘You want tea, love?’
‘Had some.’
‘Ready for toast?’
‘Okay.’
‘Do you want it at your desk?’
Susie sighs and pushes away her papers. He’s trying to be normal – but can anything be normal again? She stands and stretches. ‘I’ll come through.’
‘Last night—’ Archie starts when the toast is on the table. He’s leaning forward.
She sees his hand start to move towards her arm, the movement conciliatory, and she jerks it back tetchily. I don’t want comfort. I want facts. Archie’s face is weary and she feels compassion but ironically this makes her react more angrily than she might have done.
‘Don’t—’ Don’t touch me. Don’t comfort me. Don’t ... lie to me any more. ‘I need to know this, Archie. I need you to tell me your part in this story, so that I can begin to understand. I
‘No, Archie. I want to be alone. I’ll be fine. It’s still light.’
He’s going to argue and she knows she’s being unfair on him, that in not allowing him to explain she’s putting him into the worst of all positions. She knows, too, that he’ll be concerned about her feelings and about how this revelation might affect their relationship. She turns away abruptly, angry at these new layers of complication in a world that has already become uncertain.
‘Prince! Here boy!’ As the dog scuttles eagerly towards her, she reaches for his lead. ‘Go to bed, Archie.’
But she knows he won’t. She knows that when she gets back, he’ll be in his studio, losing himself in his music.
She sleeps fitfully until Archie slips in beside her, when the sheer familiarity of his presence brings enough respite from her thoughts to lull her into a deeper slumber.
It doesn’t last long. Susie sees the dawn probe its way through the fabric of the curtains, the fingers of light poking into her sore eyes with an insistence that won’t be denied. Ironically, maybe because she isn’t trying to be quiet, she manages to get out of bed without disturbing Archie. In the morning light, the whole thing seems unreal once more, its reality grounded only in side-effects, in exhaustion and a mild headache lurking behind her eyes. She pads down the stairs, avoiding the creaky boards so as not to wake Archie. She needs time alone.
Her desk is in the corner of the living room, underneath a window that faces the trees at the back of the cottage. The opening is a deep one and the window itself small, the dimensions evidence of the age of the cottage. A few days ago – before Elsie – she found the time to pick a bunch of snowdrops, but now she notices that she has allowed their water to stagnate and become cloudy and they’re already brown. Irritated by her neglect, she grabs the vase and marches through to the kitchen, drops the flowers into the compost bin and returns, without the reminder of her sloppiness, to her work.
She hears a faint creak above her head as she opens her briefcase and tries to settle to her papers. Archie is stirring. She knows she must talk to him because she needs to know his side of the story, but she shies away from the conversation, reluctant to start along the road of discovery.
I don’t want to know.
You have to know.
It’s too difficult.
You can’t hide from the truth, now that it has found you.
Archie knows how to take care of you. You can trust your husband.
But he lied to you. Her resentment is fuelled by sleeplessness. He’s been living a lie.
She bins four brochures and two annual reports, their crisp, colorful, expensive covers gazing reproachfully out of the wicker basket at her. Listen, she fires back at them irritably, I didn’t ask for you to be posted to me. I’m too busy for you. A sheaf of briefing papers from a large charity are more matched to her mood and she glances through them quickly, highlighting a sentence here, a paragraph there with a fluorescent orange marker.
Archie appears. ‘You want tea, love?’
‘Had some.’
‘Ready for toast?’
‘Okay.’
‘Do you want it at your desk?’
Susie sighs and pushes away her papers. He’s trying to be normal – but can anything be normal again? She stands and stretches. ‘I’ll come through.’
‘Last night—’ Archie starts when the toast is on the table. He’s leaning forward.
She sees his hand start to move towards her arm, the movement conciliatory, and she jerks it back tetchily. I don’t want comfort. I want facts. Archie’s face is weary and she feels compassion but ironically this makes her react more angrily than she might have done.
‘Don’t—’ Don’t touch me. Don’t comfort me. Don’t ... lie to me any more. ‘I need to know this, Archie. I need you to tell me your part in this story, so that I can begin to understand. I
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