grow up .’
She didn’t realize until then how loud they’d been shouting. There followed one dull, excruciating moment when she knew the neighbours must have heard them, and another of pure pain as she realized they’d never fought like this, not even back in the early days when everybody fought. How did you get out of a corner you’d just painted yourself into? She fell back on the old; the tried and trusted: ‘I’m sorry.’
He pretended not to hear that.
‘Mark? I said I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said any of that. I didn’t mean it. I love you.’
He mumbled something she wasn’t meant to catch, and went and locked himself in the bathroom.
So Monday was hell, even more than usual. She found a space above the airing cupboard she’d never attacked, had always assumed was spider heaven, and spent the whole morning with it, though you’d need a ladder and torch to appreciate it afterwards. Then she cried for a while, skipped lunch, and walked into town to buy something expensive from the butcher’s. This is what good little wifey is supposed to do , a voice in her head informed her, but she was too miserable to pay attention. When you were in hell, you always did what you were supposed to do.
And in the evening Mark played the good hubby anyway, getting home early with flowers and chocolates, which made them even. They went to bed first, then ate chocolates, and had fillet steak sandwiches for a midnight snack. It was a little like life five years ago; four at a pinch.
‘I’ll call him,’ he said, far too casually. ‘Tell him we can’t make it.’
‘No, let’s go.’
‘You don’t want to.’
‘No, but we have to. It’ll be all right.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘No. But let’s go anyway.’
He was pleased, but tried not to show it. ‘I’ll make it up to you. I promise.’
‘I’ve been meaning to mention it,’ she said. ‘I spent three hundred pounds last week.’
The next few days, Sarah mostly spent gearing up for what she was calling, in her mind, The Inchon Weekend: a name which made it sound like a particularly dire novel. But with a dire novel you could give up half-way, and The Inchon Weekend would have to be lived through minute by minute. It occurred to her, had occurred as soon as Mark had confessed they’d been invited, that this had been the point of having the Inchons to supper; the quid pro quo he’d been angling for from the start. Not much chance of doing business with Wigwam and Rufus about. But with a whole weekend to play with you were away, though what banking business involved, the kind you could do just talking about it, Sarah didn’t know. Presumably, though, The Bank With No Name would be happy that its brightest and best was rubbing elbows with a fat potential client. At the fat potential client’s country seat.
‘Which is where, anyway?’
‘Out in the Cotswolds.’
‘Does London continue to function without him, then?’
‘Just try and behave yourself, Sarah. No one’s asking you to enjoy it. But try and behave yourself.’
He said that in the mock-angry tone they teased each other with, but she wasn’t fooled.
They drove there, or Mark did, mid-Saturday morning. It was dreamtime weather: a great big blue sky with faint tufts of cloud, like a child’s drawing of summer. To Sarah, it felt like passing through a funfair on the way to the dentist. She kept telling herself that these things are rarely as bad as you expect, but couldn’t help suspecting she invalidated that premise by relying on it. If she wasn’t expecting it to be quite so bad any more, it would probably turn out worse.
The village was one of the modern kind whose original inhabitants have grown old and died, leaving their houses in the hands of BBC executives. And the Inchons’ weekend cottage, one in a row of similar detached dwellings, had ‘weekend cottage’ written all over it; there was just no way you were looking at anything else. Not that it had an air of
She didn’t realize until then how loud they’d been shouting. There followed one dull, excruciating moment when she knew the neighbours must have heard them, and another of pure pain as she realized they’d never fought like this, not even back in the early days when everybody fought. How did you get out of a corner you’d just painted yourself into? She fell back on the old; the tried and trusted: ‘I’m sorry.’
He pretended not to hear that.
‘Mark? I said I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said any of that. I didn’t mean it. I love you.’
He mumbled something she wasn’t meant to catch, and went and locked himself in the bathroom.
So Monday was hell, even more than usual. She found a space above the airing cupboard she’d never attacked, had always assumed was spider heaven, and spent the whole morning with it, though you’d need a ladder and torch to appreciate it afterwards. Then she cried for a while, skipped lunch, and walked into town to buy something expensive from the butcher’s. This is what good little wifey is supposed to do , a voice in her head informed her, but she was too miserable to pay attention. When you were in hell, you always did what you were supposed to do.
And in the evening Mark played the good hubby anyway, getting home early with flowers and chocolates, which made them even. They went to bed first, then ate chocolates, and had fillet steak sandwiches for a midnight snack. It was a little like life five years ago; four at a pinch.
‘I’ll call him,’ he said, far too casually. ‘Tell him we can’t make it.’
‘No, let’s go.’
‘You don’t want to.’
‘No, but we have to. It’ll be all right.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘No. But let’s go anyway.’
He was pleased, but tried not to show it. ‘I’ll make it up to you. I promise.’
‘I’ve been meaning to mention it,’ she said. ‘I spent three hundred pounds last week.’
The next few days, Sarah mostly spent gearing up for what she was calling, in her mind, The Inchon Weekend: a name which made it sound like a particularly dire novel. But with a dire novel you could give up half-way, and The Inchon Weekend would have to be lived through minute by minute. It occurred to her, had occurred as soon as Mark had confessed they’d been invited, that this had been the point of having the Inchons to supper; the quid pro quo he’d been angling for from the start. Not much chance of doing business with Wigwam and Rufus about. But with a whole weekend to play with you were away, though what banking business involved, the kind you could do just talking about it, Sarah didn’t know. Presumably, though, The Bank With No Name would be happy that its brightest and best was rubbing elbows with a fat potential client. At the fat potential client’s country seat.
‘Which is where, anyway?’
‘Out in the Cotswolds.’
‘Does London continue to function without him, then?’
‘Just try and behave yourself, Sarah. No one’s asking you to enjoy it. But try and behave yourself.’
He said that in the mock-angry tone they teased each other with, but she wasn’t fooled.
They drove there, or Mark did, mid-Saturday morning. It was dreamtime weather: a great big blue sky with faint tufts of cloud, like a child’s drawing of summer. To Sarah, it felt like passing through a funfair on the way to the dentist. She kept telling herself that these things are rarely as bad as you expect, but couldn’t help suspecting she invalidated that premise by relying on it. If she wasn’t expecting it to be quite so bad any more, it would probably turn out worse.
The village was one of the modern kind whose original inhabitants have grown old and died, leaving their houses in the hands of BBC executives. And the Inchons’ weekend cottage, one in a row of similar detached dwellings, had ‘weekend cottage’ written all over it; there was just no way you were looking at anything else. Not that it had an air of
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