To Have and to Hold by Deborah Moggach

pints.
    â€˜Dart-board’s free,’ said Diz. ‘Come on.’
    â€˜Look, Ken –’ began Ollie.
    Ken was moving away. Ollie touched his arm; the beer rocked in his glass. ‘Ken –’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜We must talk, the four of us.’ Diz had moved away; Ollie kept his voice low. ‘Viv and I’ve talked, and if we’re going to go through with this . . .’
    Ken stared at him.
    Ollie nodded. ‘She’s told me.’
    Ken paused. ‘I see.’
    â€˜Bit of a shock, but . . .’
    They both drank. There was a pause.
    â€˜I can understand,’ said Ollie. ‘No, really. I know how you feel –’
    â€˜Look –’ Ken glanced around at the crowded bar.
    â€˜How about Tuesday?’ said Ollie. ‘You could both come round and have supper.’
    â€˜Er, Tuesday’s Youth Club.’
    â€˜Wednesday then?’
    Ken nodded. They paused, then they walked over to the dart-board.
    â€˜Stop talking rot,’ said Diz. He pointed to Ollie: ‘Bet you always pick our Kenneth’s brains.’
    â€˜What about?’
    â€˜Your house.’ He turned to Ken. ‘You must’ve learnt by now that journalists have a divine dispensation to get everything free.’
    â€˜Oh shut up,’ said Ollie, and took the darts. He aimed, and hurled them at the dart-board.
    Diz laughed. ‘Steady on, Ollie-baby.’
    Ollie came into the kitchen, put down his briefcase and stared.
    â€˜Good Lord, we’re not expecting the Queen Mother.’
    Viv was on her knees scrubbing the front of the kitchen units.
    He laughed. ‘Know something? You look like a proper housewife.’
    â€˜Stop standing there. Come and help.’
    â€˜You haven’t worn that apron since they were babies.’
    â€˜Sweep the floor.’ She looked at her watch. ‘They’ll be here soon.’
    He took off his jacket and fetched the broom. ‘It’s only your sister and her husband, you know.’
    â€˜Hurry up.’
    He started sweeping the floor. When he got to the dresser he pulled it out from the wall. Reaching down behind it, he picked something up. ‘Fossilized toast!’ He inspected it closely. ‘I’d say circa the late seventies. Ah! and here’s the earring that red-headed slag lost at our party, remember?’
    Viv didn’t reply. She was taking out the groceries and muttering. ‘Watercress, tomatoes, now where’s the sodding coriander?’
    â€˜Look!’ he said. ‘Trish and Alan’s change-of-address card. No wonder they took offence. Think I’ll designate this a site of archaeological interest.’
    She didn’t laugh. ‘Coriander, coriander . . .’
    He straightened up. ‘This is ridiculous!’
    She rifled amongst the packages. ‘It’s somewhere here.’
    â€˜We’re not on display! We’re not a bloody shop window.’ Suddenly he grabbed a Pentel and went up to her. ‘Stand still.’
    â€˜What’re you doing?’
    â€˜Close your eyes.’
    She was wearing a white plastic Mothercare apron; they had bought it together. On it he started writing, in large letters. 8 O-LEVELS, FERTILE, –
    â€˜What’re you doing?’ She twisted her head down.
    SOUND TEETH –
    She pushed his hand away. ‘Ollie!’
    He put his hands on her shoulders and shook her. She was damp from her work.
    â€˜Look, Viv, you don’t have to do all this. Don’t you see?’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜How lucky they are?’ He stared into her pink face. ‘How bloody lucky?’
    She paused. ‘Don’t be aggressive with them.’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Don’t be angry with Ken.’
    He gazed at her as he had gazed at Ken, following the lines of her face, looking at her thin shoulders under her T-shirt. Ken had looked surprisingly strong; Viv, he realized, had lost weight. She had