one
mood to another, and without apparent calculation. He
felt the pleasure of being beside her, yet recognised how
instinctive it was, how little concerned with his knowledge
that she was intelligent, ambitious and good-natured.
His feelings for Penny were different weren't they? Or
rather they included the same response, but more besides.
There was something about Penny that discovered in
him an emotion he'd not felt before: not for Stella, not
for Melanie, not for women important in his life before
either of them. Some combination of sympathy and
apprehension: a protective concern for some recovery in
her life, and a wish to be part of that restitution. The closer
he came to her, the more he sensed in her something drawn
dangerously tight, something suppressed, which might
snap with immense consequence. Even as he talked with
Angie, even with the physical awareness of her presence,
in the quieter preserve of his mind he thought of Penny
and Ben, hidden and isolated in the Dunstan hills. Penny's
hands on the little boy's shoulders: her preoccupation with
his happiness, and his careless possession of it.
You could leave a woman, or have a woman leave you,
but you could never fully abandon the experience of the
relationship, for that isn't amenable to conscious choice.
Like the time of childhood, it may seem to have concerned
a different person, but it held its own power nevertheless,
and had an independent influence on all that followed.
When Angie went back to her desk, Theo returned to
his own work, but uppermost in his mind was an incident
of over two years before. He had come home early in the
afternoon, after saying he would be late. The politician he'd
arranged to interview had postponed his flight and was no
longer available. Theo didn't realise there was anyone in
the house at first. There were no cars in the drive, and
he used his key on the door. He left his jacket hung on
the back of a dining room chair, and went through to the
kitchen to make a corned beef sandwich. As he finished
that small task, he heard a man's voice and then Stella's
quick, subdued laugh from one of the bedrooms.
He could have left the house then, for everything except
the identity of her companion was in that laugh. He didn't,
of course. He stood indecisive at the kitchen door with the
sandwich on a white plate. The sun through the dining
room windows made bright geometrics on the carpet and
table; a circle of pale petals lay beneath the roses on the
table; Theo's jacket was unmoved. So the jester challenges
us to see the subjective and objective as distinct.
Had Theo been an innocent, as well as injured, husband,
he may have burst into the bedroom in the pantomime way.
Instead he walked quietly into the passage, glanced into the
empty main bedroom and passed on to the guest one, in
which Stella lay on her back. There was no movement. Her
eyes were closed, her hair spread on the sheeted mattress
from which the pillows had been tossed to the floor. Just
her head was visible above the pale shield of her lover's
back. He was partly bald, well muscled and had a patch of
dark hair at the top of his spine. Theo wasn't interested in
the man's identity, and surprised himself in that. Before
he could leave, however, he needed to have his presence
acknowledged by his wife. And so the three were quiet and
motionless together there for a moment — Theo at the
doorway, Stella and the other man on the bed. Theo had
time to recognise that post-coital hiatus of relaxation and
achievement; time for the thought that Stella had chosen
the spare room, as he had himself in similar circumstances,
then she opened her eyes and saw him at the doorway.
Their gaze met. Just for that instant the stark pain
registered for both, then she squeezed her eyes shut and
turned her head to the side. Nothing was said; nothing
external changed. The stranger's back remained relaxed,
and only as Theo was taking his jacket from the dining
room chair and preparing to leave, did
mood to another, and without apparent calculation. He
felt the pleasure of being beside her, yet recognised how
instinctive it was, how little concerned with his knowledge
that she was intelligent, ambitious and good-natured.
His feelings for Penny were different weren't they? Or
rather they included the same response, but more besides.
There was something about Penny that discovered in
him an emotion he'd not felt before: not for Stella, not
for Melanie, not for women important in his life before
either of them. Some combination of sympathy and
apprehension: a protective concern for some recovery in
her life, and a wish to be part of that restitution. The closer
he came to her, the more he sensed in her something drawn
dangerously tight, something suppressed, which might
snap with immense consequence. Even as he talked with
Angie, even with the physical awareness of her presence,
in the quieter preserve of his mind he thought of Penny
and Ben, hidden and isolated in the Dunstan hills. Penny's
hands on the little boy's shoulders: her preoccupation with
his happiness, and his careless possession of it.
You could leave a woman, or have a woman leave you,
but you could never fully abandon the experience of the
relationship, for that isn't amenable to conscious choice.
Like the time of childhood, it may seem to have concerned
a different person, but it held its own power nevertheless,
and had an independent influence on all that followed.
When Angie went back to her desk, Theo returned to
his own work, but uppermost in his mind was an incident
of over two years before. He had come home early in the
afternoon, after saying he would be late. The politician he'd
arranged to interview had postponed his flight and was no
longer available. Theo didn't realise there was anyone in
the house at first. There were no cars in the drive, and
he used his key on the door. He left his jacket hung on
the back of a dining room chair, and went through to the
kitchen to make a corned beef sandwich. As he finished
that small task, he heard a man's voice and then Stella's
quick, subdued laugh from one of the bedrooms.
He could have left the house then, for everything except
the identity of her companion was in that laugh. He didn't,
of course. He stood indecisive at the kitchen door with the
sandwich on a white plate. The sun through the dining
room windows made bright geometrics on the carpet and
table; a circle of pale petals lay beneath the roses on the
table; Theo's jacket was unmoved. So the jester challenges
us to see the subjective and objective as distinct.
Had Theo been an innocent, as well as injured, husband,
he may have burst into the bedroom in the pantomime way.
Instead he walked quietly into the passage, glanced into the
empty main bedroom and passed on to the guest one, in
which Stella lay on her back. There was no movement. Her
eyes were closed, her hair spread on the sheeted mattress
from which the pillows had been tossed to the floor. Just
her head was visible above the pale shield of her lover's
back. He was partly bald, well muscled and had a patch of
dark hair at the top of his spine. Theo wasn't interested in
the man's identity, and surprised himself in that. Before
he could leave, however, he needed to have his presence
acknowledged by his wife. And so the three were quiet and
motionless together there for a moment — Theo at the
doorway, Stella and the other man on the bed. Theo had
time to recognise that post-coital hiatus of relaxation and
achievement; time for the thought that Stella had chosen
the spare room, as he had himself in similar circumstances,
then she opened her eyes and saw him at the doorway.
Their gaze met. Just for that instant the stark pain
registered for both, then she squeezed her eyes shut and
turned her head to the side. Nothing was said; nothing
external changed. The stranger's back remained relaxed,
and only as Theo was taking his jacket from the dining
room chair and preparing to leave, did
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