Chapter 21:d

In which we see Addison sweat and Helen shake

Addison deposits the letter in the girl’s hand and as an afterthought grips both of hers in his. ‘Now, mind that is given to her privately tomorrow. It’s not a business letter.’

Only after leaving does he register that the girl in all probability thinks the letter is from him. This will surely compromise Helen’s standing at the charity, and he’s done it unwittingly. God help me, he mutters to himself, I’m going to pieces. My brain is cracking up. I should’a thought of the appearances. Like I should’a done with the kids meeting.

He crosses to the other end of the centre and punishes himself by running down every one of the tiled steps until a sweat breaks out and leaves him aware of damp patches under his armpits. If only the heatwave would break, he tells himself, he would be able to pull himself together properly.

***

When Malcolm arrives home at nearly six, early for once, Helen is struck by his jaded look and her heart is stirred. He has had too much work, too little of her company recently. She warms towards his restful stolidness. She would quite like to curl up in his arms in front of a good film. If only that didn’t give him a signal to ask for more. No. On second thoughts, and here she slices vehemently into the lasagne, if he asked, that would make it fine – almost. At least acceptable. She looks at him from under her lashes as he flicks through the evening paper, waiting for his plateful. It is the taking as of right that is so –  well, ‘degrading’ is perhaps too strong a term, maybe ‘difficult to take part in’ is more truthful.

‘Here.’ She gives him the plate, pushes over the bowl of salad, offers dressing. ‘Okay?’

‘Fine… thanks for the meal.’ He always says thank you, even when sulking. She appreciates it. He is not a cad, merely thoughtless and rather insensitive.

But she knows she would never find a day when she wanted to partake of the ritual – and it is a tribal thing for men, she decides, whereas it drags her down with a deep melancholy unless she lets her mind roam detachedly elsewhere. The act keeps men on top in more ways than one and seems to fuel them for the day to come. Paradoxical and disgusting that the fuel should leak the wrong way in order to work.

The first time she felt its stickiness there was such a fear, such a wretching in her insides – no, she cannot allow herself to remember.

But it is already there in her mind’s eye – the chair suddenly losing its safety, the room falling away from her like a chocolate orange, smashed – the memory of her hand being too small for the offering. Her hand was in the way, shaking and covered in milky gunge. Where is Malcolm? Why can’t she see him?

Her mind becomes agitated; a sweat breaks out on her skin. Of course he’s not there. Her hand is small, too small. It’s the hand of a child, smooth and soft. This is before Malcolm. Before she knew.

Panic forces a dark door across the image, sealing it off by force of will, locks it securely.

She returns her mind to the dining room, and puts down her own plate of dinner. She is surprised she doesn’t drop it, considering the way her hand is trembling violently. When she looks up, she is relieved to see Malcolm calmly chomping his way through the strings of bechamel sauce that got tinged at the sides.

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