‘Hello,’ said Nancy, her eyes sweeping over his face in an attempt to try and gauge what kind of mood he was in.
His eyes were glittering hectically as he stared at the book she was reading and then let his gaze move slowly around the kitchen. ‘And what’s for supper?’ he asked carefully, in an oddly controlled voice which immediately told Nancy that he had been drinking, even if she hadn’t been able to smell it on his breath from the other side of the kitchen.
Seeing from the wall clock that it was now gone nine, she closed the textbook and smiled brightly, ‘To be honest, I hadn’t really given it a thought—’
‘I can see that!’ he sneered, opening the fridge door and taking out a bottle of white wine. ‘Too busy with your precious textbooks again.’
‘But, Steve, you weren’t even at home,’ she said, putting on her most reasonable voice, ‘so what was the point of preparing something when I wasn’t even sure you’d want it?’
‘I called you earlier,’ he responded icily, as he began to twist the corkscrew into the bottle, ‘and you were out.’
‘But there were no messages on the answerphone!’ Nancy pointed out in confusion. ‘I looked!’
Steve’s eyes glittered dangerously. ‘So you’ve been checking up on me, have you?’
‘No,’ answered Nancy steadily. ‘Why should I want to do that?’
He shrugged. ‘You tell me,’ came the slightly threatening reply.
His handsome face looked ugly—bloated and red with drink—and Nancy was aware that she was handling this all wrong and that by sounding so defensive it was giving him the opportunity to attack her.
‘Are you hungry?’ she asked calmly.
‘Not for food,’ came the unsteady reply, and his eyes focussed blearily on her breasts. ‘Why d’you have to wear that horrible sloppy jumper?’ he grumbled, as he eased the cork out of the bottle with a resounding pop. ‘Hides all your assets.’
Nancy felt ill, torn between telling Steve that he had already drunk quite enough and keeping quiet about it. She knew that if he continued to drink at the same rate at least he wouldn’t start pawing at her.
As a doctor she knew what her advice should be, and as a wife she knew that she wasn’t going to give it.
She rose to her feet, keeping her distance. ‘Shall I make you an omelette? Or there’s some frozen curry in the freezer. I could microwave that.’
Steve splashed some wine into a large glass and slugged half of it back. ‘If you want,’ he mumbled. ‘I’m going to watch TV.’
Nancy watched him pick up the bottle and glass and wander towards the sitting room. Guilt, mixed with an overwhelming sense of relief, washed over her until an immense sadness obliterated everything.
Whatever had happened to him?
To her?
To them?
Nancy frowned as she pulled open the freezer door, her mind flitting back to when they had met—when the world had seemed a much less complicated place.
To the worldly Steve, the bookish Nancy had seemed like a creature from another planet. He’d never met a woman who was more interested in studying than in buying clothes or going out.
As an account executive of a successful regional advertising agency, Steve had had all the accoutrements of success achieved at an early age—the fast cars, the designer clothes and the luxurious holidays in far-flung corners of the globe, as well as the slightly spoilt air of cynical detachment, which seemed to fascinate members of the opposite sex. Women had spent their lives flinging themselves at him.
But Nancy didn’t fling herself at him—in fact, she’d scarcely noticed him. It was a new and heady experience for the worldly Steven Greenwood, and he’d pursued her with a flattering and ardent dedication until at last she’d agreed to go out with him.
Steve’s world had been a very different world to the one which Nancy had been used to inhabiting, and their very differences had been what at first had attracted them to each other. It had been exciting to be with a man who hadn’t always had his head in a book—who had done wild, crazy things on impulse, instead of writing essays.
But at the back of her mind Nancy had suspected that the relationship had had no solid footing to bolster up the purely physical appeal which had existed between them. More than once she had tentatively broached the subject of their incompatibility with Steve, but he had kissed her doubts away and eventually taken her to bed.
Nancy’s upbringing had been a conventional one—you saved your virginity for the man you loved and would marry. She had never questioned this point of view and it had seemed to be satisfactorily backed up by her parents’ long and happy marriage. So that when, soon after he had taken her to bed for the first time, Steve had asked to marry her she had turned to him happily and said yes.
So just how could dreams die and hope be eroded after less than two years together? she wondered sadly as she took a couple of plates down from the cupboard.
Fifteen minutes later she carried a steaming tray into the sitting room. On it were two delicious platefuls of chicken bhuna and saffron rice, with accompanying naan and a side-salad. She had even put a glass on the tray. She would join Steve for a drink, and that way he would drink less himself. They would eat a delicious meal in front of the fire and she would let him watch the video of his choice, which usually meant a film with a cast composed entirely of men!
Though, come to think of it, mused Nancy wryly as she padded through from the kitchen, carefully balancing the tray, he usually did watch the video of his choice, anyway!
Nancy came to a halt in the doorway.
On the sofa, sprawled out with all the abandonment of a sleeping toddler, lay her husband. The remote control lay like a prayer-book on his chest, even as the television droned on, ignored, in the corner. The wine bottle was already empty.
Nancy put the tray down and went to wake him.
‘Steve,’ she called softly, and shook him gently by the shoulder.
For answer he simply expelled some sour breath from his mouth and sucked in a huge, shuddering breath.
Nancy was no stranger to this routine.
With a sigh, she made him comfortable and removed his shoes and socks, then covered him up with a spare blanket kept in the cupboard underneath the stairs. Then she carried the tray back to the kitchen and binned its contents.
Only then, after a final check, did she turn off the television, snap off the sitting-room light and leave her husband, snoring, in the darkness.
The first day back after a holiday was always exhausting but today had been especially wearing, and Callum did something he hadn’t done for years.
He went to the pub on the way home from work.
Purbrook had several pubs, but in Callum’s opinion the Crown served the best beer—and was also the closest to his sprawling thatched cottage which overlooked the surrounding fields. At weekends he would occasionally pop in for a pint, and had been known to bring girlfriends in to sample some of the landlady’s famous steak and ale pies.
The pub was low-ceilinged and beamed, with a real fire in the corner. Pewter mugs, belonging to regular customers, hung above the bar and gleamed in a dull, beaten-silver row.
Tom Watts had been the landlord of the Crown for longer than most people could remember, and he beamed with delight as Callum stooped his head to pass underneath the low doorway and went to stand at the bar.
‘Evening, Doctor.’ He smiled proudly. It added a certain cachet if one of the local doctors happened to drink in your establishment!