purpose. Filled a hole. But even as she spent, she knew she had been infected by a kind of madness, that the brightly lit interiors and rows of cashmere jumpers, the fawning shop assistants and beautifully packaged boxes were increasingly less efficient at diverting her attention from the looming reality at home. She gleaned little satisfaction from her acquisitions: the initial rush of the purchase would wear off faster and faster so that she would sit at home, surrounded by crisp carrier-bags, blinking in bemusement at her cargo or, occasionally, weeping after she had felt brave enough to calculate what she had spent. She became an early riser, always up in time for the postman.
There was no point in worrying Neil.
It had taken him almost six months to make the discovery. It was fair to say, as they did, some time later, that it had not been the high point of their marriage, especially not when he, pushed beyond his own depression, had questioned her sanity and announced that it was she, and not his redundancy, that was making him impotent. Finally allowing herself to unleash the anger she had bottled up for so long – perhaps made vicious by her own unacknowledged sense of responsibility – she had told him in return that not only was he cruel, but unfair and unreasonable too. Why should his problems have to impact so terribly on her life? Had she reneged on any part of the bargain? The changes she had made were for them. She still considered it a matter of quiet pride that she had not said what she really thought. That she had not used the Failure word, even if, when she looked at him, she felt it.
Then her father had mentioned the house, and although she was still furious with him about the will, Neil had persuaded her that they had no choice. Unless they wanted to be declared bankrupt. The horror of that word still had the capacity to chill her.
And so, almost nine months ago, Suzanna and Neil had sold their London flat. With the profit, they had paid off the debts on Suzanna’s credit and store cards, the lesser debt Neil had run up before he managed to get a new job, and bought a small, unshowy car, described by the salesman, a little apologetically, as ‘useful for the station’. Lured by the prospect of a three-bedroom flint-fronted estate house, almost rent-free and renovated by her father, they had moved back to Dere Hampton, where Suzanna had grown up, and which she had spent the last fifteen years doing her best to avoid.
When they came in the little house was cold: Suzanna had forgotten to set the timer on the heating again. She was still surprised by how much colder it was in the country. ‘Sorry,’ she muttered, as Neil whistled and blew on his hands, and was grateful when he didn’t say anything about it. Neil was still enthusiastic about all aspects of country living, persuading himself that their move was about quality of life, rather than downsizing, choosing only to see the advantages of chocolate-box cottages and rolling green acres, rather than the reality as experienced by his wife: of people who knew, or thought they knew, everything about you, the claustrophobia of years of shared history, the subtle policing of women with too much money and too little time.
The answerphone was flashing, and Suzanna fought a guilty thrill of hope that it might be one of her London friends. They were ringing less often now, her lack of availability for coffee or early evening drinks in wine bars slowly fraying what she now knew must have been pretty tenuous threads of friendship. It didn’t stop her missing them, the easy camaraderie, the unselfconsciousness that had built over years. She was tired of having to think about what she said before she said it; frequently she found it easier, as she had this evening, to say almost nothing at all.
‘Hello, darlings. I hope you’re both out having fun somewhere. I just wondered whether you’d had a think about Lucy’s birthday lunch on the sixteenth.
There was no point in worrying Neil.
It had taken him almost six months to make the discovery. It was fair to say, as they did, some time later, that it had not been the high point of their marriage, especially not when he, pushed beyond his own depression, had questioned her sanity and announced that it was she, and not his redundancy, that was making him impotent. Finally allowing herself to unleash the anger she had bottled up for so long – perhaps made vicious by her own unacknowledged sense of responsibility – she had told him in return that not only was he cruel, but unfair and unreasonable too. Why should his problems have to impact so terribly on her life? Had she reneged on any part of the bargain? The changes she had made were for them. She still considered it a matter of quiet pride that she had not said what she really thought. That she had not used the Failure word, even if, when she looked at him, she felt it.
Then her father had mentioned the house, and although she was still furious with him about the will, Neil had persuaded her that they had no choice. Unless they wanted to be declared bankrupt. The horror of that word still had the capacity to chill her.
And so, almost nine months ago, Suzanna and Neil had sold their London flat. With the profit, they had paid off the debts on Suzanna’s credit and store cards, the lesser debt Neil had run up before he managed to get a new job, and bought a small, unshowy car, described by the salesman, a little apologetically, as ‘useful for the station’. Lured by the prospect of a three-bedroom flint-fronted estate house, almost rent-free and renovated by her father, they had moved back to Dere Hampton, where Suzanna had grown up, and which she had spent the last fifteen years doing her best to avoid.
When they came in the little house was cold: Suzanna had forgotten to set the timer on the heating again. She was still surprised by how much colder it was in the country. ‘Sorry,’ she muttered, as Neil whistled and blew on his hands, and was grateful when he didn’t say anything about it. Neil was still enthusiastic about all aspects of country living, persuading himself that their move was about quality of life, rather than downsizing, choosing only to see the advantages of chocolate-box cottages and rolling green acres, rather than the reality as experienced by his wife: of people who knew, or thought they knew, everything about you, the claustrophobia of years of shared history, the subtle policing of women with too much money and too little time.
The answerphone was flashing, and Suzanna fought a guilty thrill of hope that it might be one of her London friends. They were ringing less often now, her lack of availability for coffee or early evening drinks in wine bars slowly fraying what she now knew must have been pretty tenuous threads of friendship. It didn’t stop her missing them, the easy camaraderie, the unselfconsciousness that had built over years. She was tired of having to think about what she said before she said it; frequently she found it easier, as she had this evening, to say almost nothing at all.
‘Hello, darlings. I hope you’re both out having fun somewhere. I just wondered whether you’d had a think about Lucy’s birthday lunch on the sixteenth.
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