Alice gave an impatient snort, and marched out of the kitchen. She couldn’t bear standing there a minute longer, feeling guilty and annoyed all at the same time.
She slammed the front door of the tutorial college, and began to stride off down the road, watching her breath turn to steam in the cold air, wondering if Piers would open the door when she got to Russell Street, and agonizing, for the millionth time, over what on earth she was going to buy him—and Ginny, and Duncan—for Christmas.
Jonathan remained motionless when she had gone, staring into the corner of the kitchen, holding the fluttering white letter in his hand. He was still in this position when Liz came back in.
‘Was that Alice I heard charging out?’ she said. She smiled widely at Jonathan and, as she went past to switch the kettle on, put a hand out to rumple his hair. Then she wondered whether she was behaving suspiciously. Did she usually rumple Jonathan’s hair? Or had she only ever done that to Marcus? While Marcus’s thick, glossy locks naturally invited a hand to run through them, Jonathan’s hair was thinning and rather dry. She tried to remember rumpling his hair in the past. But the only vision that came into her mind was that of plunging her fingers into Marcus’s dark hair as they made love; of caressing his head as they lay companionably afterwards; of tickling the back of his neck as they drove back to Silchester, until he turned his head to smile at her.
This affair with Marcus was, she realized, robbing her of her instinctive, everyday behaviour towards Jonathan. Every gesture she made now was measured; every comment designed to quell suspicion; every tender moment shadowed by the memory of a counterpart with Marcus. She couldn’t remember how she used to act before all of this; couldn’t judge what was natural and what was false. She felt like an actor with selective amnesia: sometimes everything would come flooding back with accustomed ease; sometimes she would be left stranded, with only a small repertoire of comments and gestures to get her through the moment.
She gave a quick glance at Jonathan. He was still sitting stationary on the stool, staring at nothing. And he probably didn’t notice any of it, she thought, with sudden irritation. He had always been hopelessly oblivious to variations in the tone of her voice; to meaningful gestures or raised eyebrows designed to galvanize him into action. He wouldn’t wonder why she was suddenly rumpling his hair; he probably hadn’t even noticed her doing it.
‘Do you want some more coffee?’ she said, trying to sound unconcerned. She looked round. ‘Jonathan?’ He swivelled to face her, his face weary and unsmiling. Oh my God, thought Liz. Oh my God. He’s found out.
‘Look at this,’ he said, holding out the letter. Liz’s eyes flickered to it, then rose to meet his.
‘What is it?’ she asked, hating her voice for faltering.
‘It’s a letter,’ said Jonathan.
‘I can see that! Who’s it from?’ She picked up a mug from the draining board and began, needlessly, distractedly, to dry it.
‘It’s from Brown’s,’ said Jonathan. He took a deep, sighing breath and rubbed his hand over his face. ‘They’ve written to us about our mortgage.’
Liz stared at him, unable to respond as she knew she should. She tried to adopt an expression of concern; tried to summon up a shared feeling of alarm. But a little voice inside her sighed with relief. It was only the mortgage. She and Marcus were safe from discovery.
‘What’s wrong?’ she said, wrinkling her brow in what she hoped looked like worry. Jonathan shrugged.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Maybe nothing. It’s from the new branch manager. She’s carrying out a review of all small business loans. She wants to see us. She says she isn’t sure why we’ve been allowed to carry on with two mortgages.’
‘She?’ Jonathan looked down at the letter and nodded.
‘Barbara Dean.’
‘Are you sure it isn’t a man called Dean Barbara? People have funny names, you know.’ Liz grinned at Jonathan, trying to haul him out of his slough of gloom. But he peered at the letter again.
‘Barbara Dean, brackets, Mrs.’ He looked up at Liz. ‘Close brackets.’
‘OK. It’s a woman.’ Liz began to feel an impatience of the sort that hit her whenever pupils put up their hands to point out that the wrong date was written on the board. ‘And what does she say?’
‘She wants to see us. To discuss our position,