excitement and arousal he was feeling were real, that his need to interrupt their 'lovemaking' to go to the bathroom was because of a weak bladder, when in reality...
David gave a small grimace of distaste as he stepped out of the shower. Tiggy's sexual appetite had mirrored her disordered appetite for food.
Wild binges of excess had been followed by self-revulsion and self-punishment. Whilst at the time he might not have recognised her symptoms for what they were, and most certainly had not possessed either the expertise or the compassion to help her, he had been as eager as her to maintain the outward facade of their 'perfect' marriage. He, too, had made a show of their highly charged and very sexual relationship, entered willingly into those little playlets of fake sexual intimacy and loving adoration that they enacted together in public. And like so much else in his life, eventually the burden of maintaining such a fiction had destroyed whatever genuineness might have existed, leaving in its place a ghastly, destructive, numbing fear that somehow he might slip up and that others would see him as he really was.
Just about the time he had started using his client's bank account as though the money was his own, he had started having terrifying dreams that he was walking through Haslewich's main town square, but no one he saw seemed to recognise him. When he paused and looked at his reflection in a shop window, he realised why. He looked nothing like he should have done.
He had turned round to face the street, calling out to those watching him, his brother Jon, his wife, his father, his cronies at the golf club, but all of them had refused to listen, shrugging him off as though he were a stranger importuning them.
Easy enough to understand the message of his dream now, when ironically he could walk through the square and be recognised physically as himself, the same David Crighton who had walked away from his family and his home, but inwardly...inwardly the man he was now was as much a stranger to them as though they had never met. A stranger sometimes to himself, as well, given the extent of his own bemusement over his physical reaction to Honor.
Once dressed, he went downstairs into the kitchen where he filled the kettle with water.
Whilst he waited for it to boil, he studied his surroundings. One of the window sashes had rotted, leaving the window unable to close properly.
There was a gap beneath the ill-fitting outer kitchen door. As he already knew, the stairs creaked badly and beneath the carpet on the landing a couple of floor planks were out of align-ment.
Honor had obviously attempted to brighten up the kitchen, which was painted in a strikingly warm shade of ochre, while the dresser against one wall was adorned with vibrant, Mediterra-nean-coloured pieces of china.
In the alcove over the large, old-fashioned range, a variety of what he imagined must be herbs were tied to a wooden drying rack. But despite these touches, the room felt cold and slightly damp, and when David went over to the range and touched it, he realised that it had gone out.
After a moment's hesitation, he got down on his knees in front of it. He then opened the doors and proceeded to clean it out.
He had just managed to light it when the kitchen door opened and Honor came in with a large wicker basket over one arm.
'You're up early!' she exclaimed as she smiled at him.
'I could say the same to you,' David returned as he closed the doors of the range and went to the sink to wash his hands.
'Oh well, a lot of the plants and herbs I use are best gathered when they are at their freshest. They are more effective then.'
'That sounds suspiciously like medieval my-thology to me,' David teased.
Sharing his laughter, Honor added, 'But it wasn't just plants and herbs I went out for.' She opened the draw-string top of her basket and removed a handful of mushrooms. Her eyes lit with pleasure as she showed them to him. 'Look, breakfast!'
'Are
David gave a small grimace of distaste as he stepped out of the shower. Tiggy's sexual appetite had mirrored her disordered appetite for food.
Wild binges of excess had been followed by self-revulsion and self-punishment. Whilst at the time he might not have recognised her symptoms for what they were, and most certainly had not possessed either the expertise or the compassion to help her, he had been as eager as her to maintain the outward facade of their 'perfect' marriage. He, too, had made a show of their highly charged and very sexual relationship, entered willingly into those little playlets of fake sexual intimacy and loving adoration that they enacted together in public. And like so much else in his life, eventually the burden of maintaining such a fiction had destroyed whatever genuineness might have existed, leaving in its place a ghastly, destructive, numbing fear that somehow he might slip up and that others would see him as he really was.
Just about the time he had started using his client's bank account as though the money was his own, he had started having terrifying dreams that he was walking through Haslewich's main town square, but no one he saw seemed to recognise him. When he paused and looked at his reflection in a shop window, he realised why. He looked nothing like he should have done.
He had turned round to face the street, calling out to those watching him, his brother Jon, his wife, his father, his cronies at the golf club, but all of them had refused to listen, shrugging him off as though he were a stranger importuning them.
Easy enough to understand the message of his dream now, when ironically he could walk through the square and be recognised physically as himself, the same David Crighton who had walked away from his family and his home, but inwardly...inwardly the man he was now was as much a stranger to them as though they had never met. A stranger sometimes to himself, as well, given the extent of his own bemusement over his physical reaction to Honor.
Once dressed, he went downstairs into the kitchen where he filled the kettle with water.
Whilst he waited for it to boil, he studied his surroundings. One of the window sashes had rotted, leaving the window unable to close properly.
There was a gap beneath the ill-fitting outer kitchen door. As he already knew, the stairs creaked badly and beneath the carpet on the landing a couple of floor planks were out of align-ment.
Honor had obviously attempted to brighten up the kitchen, which was painted in a strikingly warm shade of ochre, while the dresser against one wall was adorned with vibrant, Mediterra-nean-coloured pieces of china.
In the alcove over the large, old-fashioned range, a variety of what he imagined must be herbs were tied to a wooden drying rack. But despite these touches, the room felt cold and slightly damp, and when David went over to the range and touched it, he realised that it had gone out.
After a moment's hesitation, he got down on his knees in front of it. He then opened the doors and proceeded to clean it out.
He had just managed to light it when the kitchen door opened and Honor came in with a large wicker basket over one arm.
'You're up early!' she exclaimed as she smiled at him.
'I could say the same to you,' David returned as he closed the doors of the range and went to the sink to wash his hands.
'Oh well, a lot of the plants and herbs I use are best gathered when they are at their freshest. They are more effective then.'
'That sounds suspiciously like medieval my-thology to me,' David teased.
Sharing his laughter, Honor added, 'But it wasn't just plants and herbs I went out for.' She opened the draw-string top of her basket and removed a handful of mushrooms. Her eyes lit with pleasure as she showed them to him. 'Look, breakfast!'
'Are
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