Transgressions by Sarah Dunant

invite him.”
    “Well, thank God he didn’t.”
    “Indeed. Sad, though, eh?” She paused. And then when she realized she wasn’t going to get anything more: “How does it make you feel?”
    Sally, up and running, gathering gossip for the local newsletter. “Actually, Sal, to be honest I couldn’t give a toss. And I do have to go.”
    “How about the cab?”
    “I’ll get one off the street. I’m sure someone else will take mine.”
    “Okay. Well, just don’t go underground again, right? I know you’ll probably take offense if I say it, but you’re not looking all that great. I bet this is the first time you’ve been out for weeks. Am I right?”
    Elizabeth put up her hands in mock submission.
    Sally shook her head. “See? I do wish you’d let me run your life for a bit. I know I could get you back into the swing of things.”
    The swing of things. It didn’t sound like the kind of place one wanted to be, even with Sally holding one’s hand. Definitely time to go.
    Outside the sudden fresh air sharpened her up, the night temperatures rapidly plunging their way toward zero. She was absurdly glad to be out of the house and on the street. She walked the fifty yards or so to the main road and stood waiting for a cab. After a few minutes, a car with three guys stopped at the traffic lights, the one in the back rolling down a window. “Hey, darling? Need a lift?”
    “No, thanks,” she said, her voice instantly a middle-class parody. “I’m waiting for someone.”
    “Yeah, me,” he said, laughing, starting to open his door. She felt herself go tense, checking for other people on the street. Across the road a couple was walking, almost out of earshot, but at that moment the lights changed and the driver slammed into second gear, taking off at an unholy speed, leaving the passenger clinging to the door for dear life. She heard their wild laughter echoing down the road.
    When a cab finally came, she gave her address and sat back against the seat, exhausted. Too much social life after too little. She wasn’t up for it. Give me written words any day, she thought. Nobody answers you back.
     
    H er address was at the end of a maze of one-way streets, so she had to direct the driver for the last couple of blocks. As they turned the corner onto her road she saw a blue Mustang pull out from the curb and head off in the other direction. Bad electrical system, she thought, remembering the trouble that she and Tom had had with theirs. The Golf may have less prestige, but it also has more reliability.
    She paid the driver and made her way, somewhat unsteadily, to the door, where she fumbled with the lock. The cabbie stayed where he was, engine running. It took longer with him watching but she was grateful for the surveillance. When she finally succeeded in opening it she threw him a wave.
    “All right then, love?”
    “Fine, thanks. Good night.” Sweet, she thought.
    Inside, the house loomed up above her, dark and silent. Have you missed me? she wondered.
     
    S he flung off her coat and dropped it on the floor, pleased to be home but a little unnerved by the quiet. Both her head and her stomach were demanding attention. Sleep. That’s what she needed. But water first. Lots of it.
    She moved along the corridor toward the kitchen stairs and it was then that she heard it, seeping out from under the door: the sound of a voice as mellow as any instrument with an audience behind, showing their appreciation. Van Morrison singing his heart out in San Francisco, and her kitchen. Oh, great, she thought for a second in her blurred state, I love that track. Then reality registered like a sharp kick to the stomach.
    She stood stiffly by the door, her hand on the handle. There was light from underneath, but, then, she usually left one on, just for security’s sake. Just as she also locked the door. She turned the key in the lock quietly and pushed. Nothing happened. She pushed again. No. The door was locked now. Surely she