every news item functions as a talismanic prayer that wards off the unnamed evil and keeps us safe from harm.
Parisians are flocking to London to spend their euros in Marks & Spencer and Top Shop. Meg finds this mildly offensive. What has Paris to do with supermarket bargains? Paris is where she and Tom have talked of going for the weekend, if ever his professional and family commitments allow. At least, he said it once, asked her if she would like that, and she said yes she would.
Actually anywhere would do. The magic would be that they could go about as a couple. Stroll down a shopping street. Eat in a café. Go to a film. All the things couples do together that become meaningful because they are shared. Once you’re in a couple the film can be bad and the evening is still memorable. As for walking down the street side by side: the gaze of every passer-by is as binding as the voice of a priest in a wedding church. The sacrament of the boulevard.
Did he mean it? He’s never spoken about it since.
Carol Vorderman wept as she left the show.
A car driving up outside. Meg goes to the kitchen window which overlooks the residents’ car park and sees him pulling up, getting out of his car, glancing back as he presses the remote lock to see the answering flash of orange lights.
She turns off the television, checks herself in the mirror in the living room, pulls the belt of her bathrobe tight around her waist, runs a hand through her hair. Not what you’d call a beauty, but she’ll do.
Hyper-receptive to every detail of his coming, she hears the outer door open and close two floors below. He uses the key she had cut for him, the key that he keeps openly, unquestioned, on his key ring, the way into her private space that lies warm in his pocket.
Now his footsteps up the stairs: utterly recognizable, though impossible to say what it is that singles him out. His soft confident tap on the door. He knows she’s there, waiting, listening.
And all at once she’s in his arms.
‘Oh, Meg.’
His sigh of happiness. He kisses her. She whispers in his ear the words he has taught her, the words he longs to hear.
‘I want you to fuck me, Tom. I want to be fucked.’
Afterwards, lying in bed by candlelight, they slip into a half-sleep. Only five minutes or so, but Meg treasures the sweet shared moments of peace.
Then he stirs, and sits up.
‘Is the shower fixed yet?’
‘No, not yet.’
‘No time for a bath. Never mind.’
He must go home to his wife. Meg feels no guilt. This is nothing to do with his marriage. She has no claim on him, does not presume to regard herself as a rival. He has a wife, family, home, job, and from the fullness of his full life he shares with her this infinitesimally small part of himself. It’s the part that only exists with her, and so it rightfully belongs to her. Small for him; for her, all the world.
‘I expect I’ll be playing a round of golf tomorrow.’
This is code. He comes to her after golf.
‘What sort of time?’
‘Twelvish?’
‘Yes, okay. Oh, no. I’ve got the plumber coming round then. I’ll call him and put him off.’
‘Don’t do that. The shower needs fixing.’
She can’t say: I’d rather see you once, for half an hour between a game of golf and family lunch, than ever have a shower again in all the rest of my life. So instead, compliant as ever, she says, ‘Maybe later tomorrow?’
‘Maybe. I’ll call.’
And I’ll be waiting, says Meg silently. Not aloud, because she doesn’t want him to know how much he means to her.
11
‘But you live in London,’ says Caspar, puzzled, twisting his fingers through Alice’s hair. ‘And Guy lives in London.’
‘London’s huge, Cas. Absolutely huge.’
‘I’m going to London to see Guy.’
‘All right. But he’s a very busy man. He may be out.’
‘Out where?’
‘At a meeting. Or a lunch. Or seeing someone.’
Caspar wrinkles his brow, trying to imagine this faraway life.
‘Dad doesn’t go
Parisians are flocking to London to spend their euros in Marks & Spencer and Top Shop. Meg finds this mildly offensive. What has Paris to do with supermarket bargains? Paris is where she and Tom have talked of going for the weekend, if ever his professional and family commitments allow. At least, he said it once, asked her if she would like that, and she said yes she would.
Actually anywhere would do. The magic would be that they could go about as a couple. Stroll down a shopping street. Eat in a café. Go to a film. All the things couples do together that become meaningful because they are shared. Once you’re in a couple the film can be bad and the evening is still memorable. As for walking down the street side by side: the gaze of every passer-by is as binding as the voice of a priest in a wedding church. The sacrament of the boulevard.
Did he mean it? He’s never spoken about it since.
Carol Vorderman wept as she left the show.
A car driving up outside. Meg goes to the kitchen window which overlooks the residents’ car park and sees him pulling up, getting out of his car, glancing back as he presses the remote lock to see the answering flash of orange lights.
She turns off the television, checks herself in the mirror in the living room, pulls the belt of her bathrobe tight around her waist, runs a hand through her hair. Not what you’d call a beauty, but she’ll do.
Hyper-receptive to every detail of his coming, she hears the outer door open and close two floors below. He uses the key she had cut for him, the key that he keeps openly, unquestioned, on his key ring, the way into her private space that lies warm in his pocket.
Now his footsteps up the stairs: utterly recognizable, though impossible to say what it is that singles him out. His soft confident tap on the door. He knows she’s there, waiting, listening.
And all at once she’s in his arms.
‘Oh, Meg.’
His sigh of happiness. He kisses her. She whispers in his ear the words he has taught her, the words he longs to hear.
‘I want you to fuck me, Tom. I want to be fucked.’
Afterwards, lying in bed by candlelight, they slip into a half-sleep. Only five minutes or so, but Meg treasures the sweet shared moments of peace.
Then he stirs, and sits up.
‘Is the shower fixed yet?’
‘No, not yet.’
‘No time for a bath. Never mind.’
He must go home to his wife. Meg feels no guilt. This is nothing to do with his marriage. She has no claim on him, does not presume to regard herself as a rival. He has a wife, family, home, job, and from the fullness of his full life he shares with her this infinitesimally small part of himself. It’s the part that only exists with her, and so it rightfully belongs to her. Small for him; for her, all the world.
‘I expect I’ll be playing a round of golf tomorrow.’
This is code. He comes to her after golf.
‘What sort of time?’
‘Twelvish?’
‘Yes, okay. Oh, no. I’ve got the plumber coming round then. I’ll call him and put him off.’
‘Don’t do that. The shower needs fixing.’
She can’t say: I’d rather see you once, for half an hour between a game of golf and family lunch, than ever have a shower again in all the rest of my life. So instead, compliant as ever, she says, ‘Maybe later tomorrow?’
‘Maybe. I’ll call.’
And I’ll be waiting, says Meg silently. Not aloud, because she doesn’t want him to know how much he means to her.
11
‘But you live in London,’ says Caspar, puzzled, twisting his fingers through Alice’s hair. ‘And Guy lives in London.’
‘London’s huge, Cas. Absolutely huge.’
‘I’m going to London to see Guy.’
‘All right. But he’s a very busy man. He may be out.’
‘Out where?’
‘At a meeting. Or a lunch. Or seeing someone.’
Caspar wrinkles his brow, trying to imagine this faraway life.
‘Dad doesn’t go
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