The Skull Beneath the Skin by P. D. James

blind. Oh, she’d known all right! She couldn’t understand what he saw in Roma—she wasn’t unique in that—but she’d known the score. And had this been her revenge, the money to set up a partnership whichwas bound to fail, given their inexperience, their small capital, their self-delusions; a failure that would draw him back, suitably chastened, to the place where he belonged, the place, come to think of it, that he’d never really left? And then what would there be for him but Daddy’s business, the store in Kilburn which sold cheap plywood furniture on hire purchase to customers too ignorant to know when they were being cheated or too proud in their poverty to rummage round the street markets and buy good solid oak, second-hand. The stuff he dazzled them with, cocktail cabinets, room dividers, ornate suites, would fall or be kicked to pieces long before they’d finished paying for it. Was that what Colin wanted to do with his life? Had he left teaching for that? And had Stella thought all this out for herself or had Daddy a hand in it? The money she had lent them, hadn’t it been carefully calculated, enough to make the enterprise possible but not enough to enable them to succeed? She was sharp enough. She had a shrewd little mind to go with those sharp painted nails, those white, childlike teeth. And she had other weapons, Justin and Joanna. Possessiveness and acquisitiveness had been sanctified by maternity. She had the twins. And, by God, she knew how to use them! With every childhood infection, every school speech-day, every dental appointment, every family holiday, every Christmas demanding his presence at home, it was as if she were saying: “He may sleep with you, play at keeping shop with you, imagine that he’s in love with you, confide in you. But he’ll never give you children. And he’ll never divorce me to marry you.” Appalled at her thoughts, at what was happening to them, she cried: “Look, darling, don’t let’s quarrel. We’re tired, we’re hot and it’s a bloody day. On Friday we shut the door on the whole scene and take off for Courcy Island. Three days of peace, sunshine, good wines, first-class food and thesea. The island’s only three miles by two-and-a-half, so Clarissa says, but there are marvellous walks. We can get away from the rest of the party. Clarissa will be busy with the play. I don’t suppose Ambrose Gorringe will care a damn what we do. No creditors, no people, just peace. And, my God, don’t I need it.”
    She was going to add, “And I need you, my darling. More and more. Always.” But then she looked up and saw his face.
    It wasn’t an unfamiliar look, that mixture of shame, irritation, embarrassment. She had seen it before. This, after all, had been the pattern of their lives, the plans so confidently, so happily made, the last-minute cancellations. But never before had it mattered so desperately. Tears scalded her eyes. She told herself that she had to stay calm, that she mustn’t break down, but when she could speak the note of angry recrimination was unmistakable even to her own ears and she saw the look of shame harden into defiance.
    “You can’t do this to me! You can’t! You promised! And I’ve told Clarissa I’m bringing my partner. It’s all arranged.”
    “I know and I’m sorry. But Stella’s father telephoned at breakfast to say that he’s coming for the weekend. I’ve got to be there. I’ve told you what he’s like. He was pretty fed up about my leaving teaching. We’ve never got on. He thinks I don’t appreciate her enough; you know how it is with an only child. He’s not going to be pleased if he finds I’m away for a long weekend leaving her to cope with the kids. And he won’t believe the story about attending a book sale. I don’t think even Stella does.”
    So that was it, Daddy was arriving, Daddy who paid the twins’ school fees, provided the car, the annual holiday, the luxuries which had become necessities. Daddy