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SEVENTY-THREE

The cottage is quiet and sweet when I arrive.

There are fresh flowers in a vase on the dining table, lots of shades of pink and cream.

The Christmas tree is still up, looking sad now, too many days past Twelfth Night, branches drooping heavily toward the floorboards, a solitary bauble on the floor, sitting on a bed of dead needles.

There is condensation on the kitchen window, the lasting impression of the family who were here this morning, eating breakfast, boiling the kettle, chatting, living and breathing, without me.

But now I’m back, and we will be complete again.

I place my bag full of money under the settle in the hallway, I take off my coat and then my shoes, and I step quietly and slowly up the tiny central staircase to the landing, where I see that the door to our bedroom is closed.

My heart sings with anticipation. My darling wife.

I knock gently and then I hear her footsteps.

She pulls open the door and she is wearing a simple lawn nightdress, her hair tied back loosely, no makeup, no jewelry, she is completely unadorned, and I scoop her up in my arms and I carry her to the bed and she wraps her arms and legs around me and she kisses me back and presses her fingers into my flesh and pulls at my hair and groans into my ear and I know, all the way through, I know she is acting.

I can feel it. She is acting. And now, so am I…

Afterward, we lie together in each other’s arms, me and my beautiful wife, and I put my nose into her hair and smell her, the scalpy essence of her, and there, deep down, I smell her fear.

What is she scared of? What has happened in the days since she came to Nina’s house and peered through the windows, looking to find me in the arms of my lover?

She glances up at me and smiles, traces her fingertip across the hair on my chest. I can feel the emotional weight of the words she is about to say.

“You know,” she says, her finger making tiny circles against my skin, “Grace said she’d collect Nala from the childminder’s today.

I’ve closed the shop. The boys are with their dad.

You and I could take a drive down to Bangate.

Have another look at our pavilion. Maybe have dinner somewhere.

What do you think? I’ve had so many ideas about the new café.

I’ve got mood boards. I’ve filled in all the forms to apply for a business loan, extend the mortgage.

And I thought… since you’re getting the money from your mum’s house…

I’m sorry if that sounds insensitive, I know she’s only just moved out and I know you’ve been through such stress these last few weeks.

But I just want to move on now, Al. I want us to get the dream rolling.

Finally. You and me. And look.” She turns slightly and points toward the window.

“It’s a sunny day. What do you think? It would be nice? ”

I stare down at her and I see that she has softened.

The fear has left her eyes. She was just nervous, I think, nervous to ask me about spending the money from my mother’s house, scared I would be cross with her for her insensitivity.

And the sex, I see now, was some kind of attempt to butter me up, to reassure me, and I suddenly feel myself relax.

“Yes,” I say, kissing the knuckles of her hand. “Yes. It would be lovely.”

She wears a soft pink sweater and loose-fitting jeans, with a padded coat over the top. I smile at her in the hallway, where she’s lacing up her trainers.

“Are we bringing Baxter?”

“No,” she says. “Let’s leave him here. Just in case we want to go somewhere they don’t allow dogs.”

I smile and nod, and I take my coat off the peg and slip it on.

As I do so, my eye is caught by the bag of money under the settle where I left it.

I could show it to Martha now, a sign of my grand intentions.

Look , I could say, we’re starting with this .

But then I think, No, that money is my safety net.

My escape fund. Should I ever need it. Which I won’t.

Not now that Martha and I are back together.

But then a question mark of doubt pops into my consciousness.

I am never complacent, I cannot afford to be, and while Martha goes to put the dog in the kitchen, I lean down quickly and slot as many stacks of notes into my jacket pockets as I can.

I also fish out my escape pack, the one I carry with me everywhere.

Then I push the bag back under the settle with my foot, hold the door open for Martha, and we leave.