‘I thought … it had never crossed my mind … I’d always imagined …’ Exhausted, I was having some trouble expressing myself. ‘I’d always been under the impression that we were together because we wanted to be together, and because we were happy most of the time. I’d thought that we loved each other. I’d thought … clearly I was mistaken, but I was looking forward to us growing old together. Me and you, growing old and dying together.’
Connie turned to me, her head on the pillow, and said, ‘Douglas, why would anyone in their right mind look forward to
It was light outside now, a bright Tuesday in June. Soon we would rise wearily and shower and brush our teeth standing at the sink together, the cataclysm put on hold while we faced the banalities of the day. We’d eat breakfast, shout farewell to Albie, listen to the shuffle and groan that passed for his goodbye. We would hug briefly on the gravel drive—
‘I’m not packing any suitcases yet, Douglas. We’ll talk more.’
‘Okay. We’ll talk more.’
— then I would drive off to the office and Connie would head off to the train station and the 0822 to London where she worked three days a week. I would say hello to colleagues and laugh at their jokes, respond to emails, eat a light lunch of salmon and watercress with visiting professors, listen to reports of their progress, nod and nod and all the time:
It was like trying to go about my business with an axe embedded in my skull.
I managed it, of course, because a public display of despair would have been unprofessional. It wasn’t until the final meeting of the day that my demeanour started to falter. I was fidgeting, perspiring, worrying at the keys in my pocket, and before the minutes of the meeting had even been approved I was standing and excusing myself, grabbing my phone, mumbling excuses and hurrying, stumbling towards the door, taking my chair some of the way with me.
Our offices and labs are built around a square laughably called The Piazza, ingeniously designed to receive no sunlight whatsoever. Hostile concrete benches sit on a scrappy lawn which is swampy and saturated in the winter, parched and dusty in the summer, and I paced back and forth across this desolate space in full view of my colleagues, one hand masking my mouth.
‘We’ll have to cancel the Grand Tour.’
Connie sighed. ‘Let’s see.’
‘We can’t go travelling around Europe with this hanging over us. Where’s the pleasure in that?’
‘I think we should still do it. For Albie’s sake.’
‘Well, as long as Albie’s happy!’
‘Douglas. Let’s talk about it when I get back from work. I must go now.’ Connie works in the education department of a large and famous London museum, liaising on outreach programmes to schools, collaborating with artists on devised work and other duties that I don’t quite understand, and I suddenly imagined her in hushed conversation with various colleagues, Roger or Alan or Chris, dapper little Chris with his waistcoat and his little spectacles.
‘Connie, is there someone else?’
‘Oh, Douglas …’
‘Is that what this is all about? Are you leaving me for someone else?’
She sounded weary. ‘We’ll talk when we get home. Not in front of Albie, though.’
‘You have to tell me now, Connie!’
‘It’s not to do with anyone else.’
‘Is it Chris?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Little Chris, waistcoat Chris!’
She laughed, and I wondered: how is it possible for her to laugh when I have this axe protruding from my skull?
‘Douglas, you’ve met Chris. I’m not insane. There’s no one else, certainly not Chris. This is entirely about you and me.’
I wasn’t sure whether this made it better or worse.
