No noise in the corridor. On a side table I spot a heavy, leather-bound address book and pick it up. The alphabetized guides are curled and darkened with use, each letter covered in a thin film of dirt. I check the As, scanning the names quickly.
AT&T
Atwater, Donald G.
Allison, Peter and Charlotte
Ashwood, Christopher
AM Management
Acorn Alarms
No Allardyce. That’s a good sign.
To B, on to the Cs, then a flick through to R. Sure enough, at the bottom of the third page:
Bar Reggio
Royal Mail
Ricken, Saul
His full address and telephone number are there as well. I have to get back to the kitchen. But there is just time for M.
M&T Communications
Macpherson, Bob and Amy
Maria’s Hair Salon
Milius, Alec
Suddenly I hear footsteps nearby, growing louder. I shut the book and place it back on the table. I am turning to leave when Katharine comes in behind me. We almost collide, and her face sparks into rage.
‘What are you doin’ in here, Alec?’
‘I was just…’
‘What? What are you doing?’
I can think of nothing to say and wait for the wave of anger in her eyes to break over me. In the space of a few seconds, the evening has been ruined.
But something happens now, something entirely artificial and against the apparent nature of Katharine’s mood. It is as if she applies brakes to herself. Had I been anyone else, there would have been an argument, a venting of spleen, but the fury in her quickly subsides.
‘You get lost?’ she asks, though she knows that this is unrealistic. I have been to the bathroom in their flat countless times.
‘No. I was snooping. I’m sorry. It was an intrusion.’
‘It’s all right,’ she replies, moving past me. ‘I just came to get something to wear. I’m kinda cold.’
I leave immediately, saying nothing, and return to the sitting room. When Katharine comes back–some time later–she is wearing thick Highland socks and a blue Gap sweatshirt beneath her dressing gown, as if to suppress anything that I may earlier have construed as erotic. She sits on the sofa opposite me, her back to the darkening sky, and fills the silence by reaching for the CD player. Her index finger prods through the first few songs on Innervisions, and Stevie comes on, the volume set low.
‘Oh, that’s right,’ she says, as if ‘Jesus Children of America’ had prompted her. ‘I was going to fix us some coffee.’
‘I’m not having any,’ I tell her as she leaves the room, and even that sounds rude. She does not reply.
I should deal with this, do it now. I follow her into the kitchen.
‘Listen, Kathy, I’m sorry. I had no right to be in your bedroom. If I caught you looking around my things, I’d go crazy.’
‘Forget about it. I told you it was okay. I have no secrets.’
She tries to smile now, but there is no hiding her annoyance. She is clearly upset; not, perhaps, by the fact that I was in her room, but because I have discovered something intimate and concealed about her relationship with Fortner that may shame her. I do not think she saw me with the address book. Leaning heavily on the counter, she spoons a single mound of Nescafé into a blue mug and fills it with hot water from the kettle. She has not looked directly at me since it happened.
‘I need you to know that it doesn’t matter to me, what I saw.’
‘What?’
Katharine stares at me, her head at an angle, tetchy.
‘I think every married couple goes through a stage where they don’t share a room.’
‘What the hell makes you think you can talk to me about this?’ she says, straightening up from the counter with a look of real disappointment in her eyes.
‘Forget it. I’m sorry.’
‘No, Alec, I can’t forget it. How is that any of your business?’
‘It’s not. I just didn’t want to leave without saying something. I don’t want you thinking that I know something about you and Fort and that I’m jumping to conclusions about it.’
‘Why would I think that? Jesus, Alec, I can’t believe you’re being like this.’
We have never before raised our voices at each other, never had a cross word.
‘I shouldn’t have said anything.’
‘No, you’re right. You shouldn’t have. If I asked you personal stuff about Kate, you wouldn’t like it too much, would you?’
‘That was a long time ago.’
‘Was it? Does it feel that way? No. No it doesn’t. These things are our most private…’
I put my hands in the air defensively, moving them up and down in a gesture of contrition.
‘I know, I know.’
‘Jesus,’ she says, a rasp in her voice. ‘I don’t wanna argue with you like this.’
‘Neither do I. I’m sorry.’
Silence now, and the edge suddenly goes out of our rush of talk. We are left facing each other, quiet and spent.
‘Let’s just sit next door, she says, turning to pick up her coffee. ‘Let’s just forget all about it.’
We go into the sitting room, the breath of the fight still around us. Stevie is singing–ridiculously–‘Don’t You Worry ’Bout a Thing.’ Katharine flops down into one of the sofas and clutches her mug in both palms. She has the most beautiful hands. Eventually she says, ‘I hate fighting with you,’ as if we have done it many times before.
‘Me too.’
I sit on the sofa opposite hers.
‘Can we talk about it?’
She emphasizes the word can here as if it were a test of character. I do not know how to respond except with the obvious: ‘About what?’
‘About Fortner.’
His name balloons out of her as if he were sick.
‘Of course we can. If you want to.’
Her voice is very quiet and steady. It is almost as if she has prepared something to say.
‘We–Fortner and I–haven’t shared a bed for more than a year. For longer than you’ve known us.’
My pulse skips.
‘I’m sorry. I had no idea.’
I immediately regret saying this.
‘We’ll work it out,’ she says hopefully. ‘I just can’t be beside him in a bed right now. It’s not anyone’s fault.’
‘No.’
‘We’re just kind of going through this thing where we’re not attracted to each other.’
‘Or where you’re not attracted to him?’
She looks up at me, acknowledging with a softened expression that this is closer to the truth.
‘Have you talked about it? Does he know how you feel?’
‘No.