turning it to glass and then seeming to wrap around them, crash after crash of thunder; and then the rain turned to hail, the stones hitting the windscreen, vying with the thunder for noise, whiting out the road markings.
She looked anxiously at Patrick, and his face was tense, his hands on the steering wheel white knuckled; all she could see of the approaching cars were their headlights, some on full beam, an endless procession, and in front of them nothing but spray—thick, impenetrable spray, only half pierced by the long red of the brake lights.
And then it was over as fast as it had begun; they ran out of it into brilliant sunshine, the thunder gone too, and the sky a sweet, clear blue.
“Wow,” she said, “that was kind of … scary.”
• • •
“So …” said Abi. They had driven through the darkness of the thunder and the hail; the sun was shining again. “So … what do you want me to do?”
Relief flooded him. She was going to be all right after all; she’d just been making a point.
“Well … nothing, I suppose. Just … just—”
“Go quietly. Is that it?”
“I … suppose so. Yes. If you put it like that.”
“I can’t think of any other way to put it, Jonathan. You want out. If I don’t, that’s my problem. You have a marriage to look after. And I only have me. Poor little old me.” She sighed.
He felt a pang of remorse and irritation in equal proportions. He hadn’t behaved entirely well. He could see that. But … she was hardlyin a vulnerable position. She was financially self-sufficient; she had a flat; she had a good job, a car; she was young, sexy, tough—she didn’t exactly need him. As Laura did …
“Abi, I’m sorry. I shall miss you. But … I don’t really have any alternative. Our relationship can’t go anywhere. And it’s very wrong. You must see that.”
“Well, why start it then?” Her voice was ugly, harsh.
“I …” He felt very tired suddenly, unable to deal with her arguments. The late night, the drive down from Birmingham, the lack of sleep, the stress of the journey, the shock of the storm: it all combined to confuse him. He slowed the car down.
“What are you doing?”
“Moving into the slow lane.”
He moved behind a red E-Type—lovely old car, he thought, surprised that he could notice it even, given his turmoil—then eased himself into a large space in the slow lane in front of an old Skoda.
“You know it’s bloody unfair,” she said, lighting a cigarette.
“Abi, I said not in the car.”
“Yes, I know you did. It’s all totally unfair, Jonathan. What do you think I am, some kind of automaton? Didn’t you ever think that I might have taken what you were doing just a little bit seriously? When you sent me flowers and bought me expensive dinners and the odd bit of costly stuff? Did you see doing all that as a substitute for just paying for me, the price of the sex?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You know perfectly well I’m very … very”— careful, Jonathan, don’t start claiming affection, could be very dangerous —“very concerned for you.”
“Oh, really? Well, I don’t think I do know that, actually. I think that because you’re rich and successful and you’ve got a wife who believes every filthy fucking lie you tell her, you can spend nights away in pricey hotels, get your sexual pleasure that way, rather than a quick screw with a tart. Well, it sucks, Jonathan. It’s filthy and I think your wife ought to know what a filthy slob she’s married to; I think youshould have to deal with that and her. And I think maybe I should tell her.”
“Abi, don’t be absurd. What good would that do?”
“Quite a lot—in the long run. Not to you, or to me, but to her and any other poor bitch whom you might fancy fucking in the future.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Of course I’d dare. What have I got to lose? Nothing at all.”
“But … but …” He found he was pleading with her. “But, Abi, you couldn’t
She looked anxiously at Patrick, and his face was tense, his hands on the steering wheel white knuckled; all she could see of the approaching cars were their headlights, some on full beam, an endless procession, and in front of them nothing but spray—thick, impenetrable spray, only half pierced by the long red of the brake lights.
And then it was over as fast as it had begun; they ran out of it into brilliant sunshine, the thunder gone too, and the sky a sweet, clear blue.
“Wow,” she said, “that was kind of … scary.”
• • •
“So …” said Abi. They had driven through the darkness of the thunder and the hail; the sun was shining again. “So … what do you want me to do?”
Relief flooded him. She was going to be all right after all; she’d just been making a point.
“Well … nothing, I suppose. Just … just—”
“Go quietly. Is that it?”
“I … suppose so. Yes. If you put it like that.”
“I can’t think of any other way to put it, Jonathan. You want out. If I don’t, that’s my problem. You have a marriage to look after. And I only have me. Poor little old me.” She sighed.
He felt a pang of remorse and irritation in equal proportions. He hadn’t behaved entirely well. He could see that. But … she was hardlyin a vulnerable position. She was financially self-sufficient; she had a flat; she had a good job, a car; she was young, sexy, tough—she didn’t exactly need him. As Laura did …
“Abi, I’m sorry. I shall miss you. But … I don’t really have any alternative. Our relationship can’t go anywhere. And it’s very wrong. You must see that.”
“Well, why start it then?” Her voice was ugly, harsh.
“I …” He felt very tired suddenly, unable to deal with her arguments. The late night, the drive down from Birmingham, the lack of sleep, the stress of the journey, the shock of the storm: it all combined to confuse him. He slowed the car down.
“What are you doing?”
“Moving into the slow lane.”
He moved behind a red E-Type—lovely old car, he thought, surprised that he could notice it even, given his turmoil—then eased himself into a large space in the slow lane in front of an old Skoda.
“You know it’s bloody unfair,” she said, lighting a cigarette.
“Abi, I said not in the car.”
“Yes, I know you did. It’s all totally unfair, Jonathan. What do you think I am, some kind of automaton? Didn’t you ever think that I might have taken what you were doing just a little bit seriously? When you sent me flowers and bought me expensive dinners and the odd bit of costly stuff? Did you see doing all that as a substitute for just paying for me, the price of the sex?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You know perfectly well I’m very … very”— careful, Jonathan, don’t start claiming affection, could be very dangerous —“very concerned for you.”
“Oh, really? Well, I don’t think I do know that, actually. I think that because you’re rich and successful and you’ve got a wife who believes every filthy fucking lie you tell her, you can spend nights away in pricey hotels, get your sexual pleasure that way, rather than a quick screw with a tart. Well, it sucks, Jonathan. It’s filthy and I think your wife ought to know what a filthy slob she’s married to; I think youshould have to deal with that and her. And I think maybe I should tell her.”
“Abi, don’t be absurd. What good would that do?”
“Quite a lot—in the long run. Not to you, or to me, but to her and any other poor bitch whom you might fancy fucking in the future.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Of course I’d dare. What have I got to lose? Nothing at all.”
“But … but …” He found he was pleading with her. “But, Abi, you couldn’t
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