beside me. He looks almost babyish swaddled in thick white cotton sheets, cushioned by a large amount of pillows. He’s exhausted. He spent yesterday in Switzerland, seeing a client. His plane was delayed and the cab from the airport got snarled up in traffic, we arrived home at approximately the same time. Like Amelie, Philip had been surprised that I had cut short my girls’ night out and wanted to know why.
I told him that I’d felt overwhelmed by a need to be with him and, more than anything in this world, I wanted to be away from the pub, full of fat, blowzy women, cigarette smoke and the smell of booze. I wanted to be in our clean, stylishly decorated, south-west-facing home. I wanted to drape my arms round his neck and squashmyself against his chest. Philip had been delighted with this response and we’d made urgent love on the stairs. For once, our needs overwhelmed our desire for comfort.
‘I just wanted to be with Philip,’ I tell Amelie truthfully.
There is a pause while she considers this. Unlike Philip, there is no probability that Amelie will be flattered into distraction.
‘Why? What’s going on?’ she asks with more perception than I appreciate.
I shiver even though it’s a bright spring day and sunshine is flooding through the bedroom window. I choose not to answer the question and ask, ‘What time did Laura get home?’ Suddenly I’m panicked. ‘She did come home, didn’t she?’
‘Are you worried that she is lying prone in an alley somewhere?’
‘No, I’m worried she slept with Stevie Jones,’ I blurt, with more truth than I intended.
‘What’s going on, Bella? What on earth made you leave her like that?’
I hesitate again. Eleven years of rigorous training battles with fleeting instinct. Can I cast aside the stringent code I’ve put in place? Can I tell her the truth? I touch Philip’s face gently. I trace his eyebrow and cheekbone. I have so much to lose. There’s everything to lose.
Despite the needy and energetic sex last night I had not fallen into my usual deep, contented sleep, whereas Philip could barely drag himself off the landing and into bed before his eyes closed. I tried reading but the words jumped about, spitefully cheating me out of a distraction. I drank a glass of warm milk but it just left a funny cloyingtaste in my mouth so I lay awake all night, replaying the past, imagining the future. One was depressing, the other bleak. I last remember looking at the clock at 5.45 a.m. After that, I must have finally fallen asleep. Amelie’s call woke me from a miserable dream where I was being chased by Big Ben and I kept standing in gigantic piles of dog faeces.
‘Amelie, can I come over? I can’t talk about this over the phone.’
‘The coffee’s on,’ she replies, mirroring my ominous tone.
Amelie opens the door to me and is clearly torn between ticking me off and giving me a hug.
‘I guess you’re in some sort of tricky spot?’ she asks.
‘You could say that. I need a coffee.’
Amelie leads me into her kitchen where, as she promised and as is usually the case, a pot of coffee is brewing. She pours me a cup and tops up her own. I reach for the warm croissants without waiting to be offered.
I choose to say nothing because I don’t know how to start. I stare out of the window and watch Freya and Davey who are playing in the garden. They are wearing their pyjamas, under their coats, accessorized with trainers. This sartorial chaos is nothing to do with the fact that Amelie is a grieving widow, although to the uninformed observer this may seem the case. Amelie, Ben and the kids often stayed in their nightwear throughout an entire weekend, unless they ventured out or invited company round. Ben always said that this was to symbolizea release from the tyranny of a working week. Although in reality, as he worked from home, his working week wasn’t hampered by a dress code. Amelie has continued the bohemian tradition after his death. It strikes me
I told him that I’d felt overwhelmed by a need to be with him and, more than anything in this world, I wanted to be away from the pub, full of fat, blowzy women, cigarette smoke and the smell of booze. I wanted to be in our clean, stylishly decorated, south-west-facing home. I wanted to drape my arms round his neck and squashmyself against his chest. Philip had been delighted with this response and we’d made urgent love on the stairs. For once, our needs overwhelmed our desire for comfort.
‘I just wanted to be with Philip,’ I tell Amelie truthfully.
There is a pause while she considers this. Unlike Philip, there is no probability that Amelie will be flattered into distraction.
‘Why? What’s going on?’ she asks with more perception than I appreciate.
I shiver even though it’s a bright spring day and sunshine is flooding through the bedroom window. I choose not to answer the question and ask, ‘What time did Laura get home?’ Suddenly I’m panicked. ‘She did come home, didn’t she?’
‘Are you worried that she is lying prone in an alley somewhere?’
‘No, I’m worried she slept with Stevie Jones,’ I blurt, with more truth than I intended.
‘What’s going on, Bella? What on earth made you leave her like that?’
I hesitate again. Eleven years of rigorous training battles with fleeting instinct. Can I cast aside the stringent code I’ve put in place? Can I tell her the truth? I touch Philip’s face gently. I trace his eyebrow and cheekbone. I have so much to lose. There’s everything to lose.
Despite the needy and energetic sex last night I had not fallen into my usual deep, contented sleep, whereas Philip could barely drag himself off the landing and into bed before his eyes closed. I tried reading but the words jumped about, spitefully cheating me out of a distraction. I drank a glass of warm milk but it just left a funny cloyingtaste in my mouth so I lay awake all night, replaying the past, imagining the future. One was depressing, the other bleak. I last remember looking at the clock at 5.45 a.m. After that, I must have finally fallen asleep. Amelie’s call woke me from a miserable dream where I was being chased by Big Ben and I kept standing in gigantic piles of dog faeces.
‘Amelie, can I come over? I can’t talk about this over the phone.’
‘The coffee’s on,’ she replies, mirroring my ominous tone.
Amelie opens the door to me and is clearly torn between ticking me off and giving me a hug.
‘I guess you’re in some sort of tricky spot?’ she asks.
‘You could say that. I need a coffee.’
Amelie leads me into her kitchen where, as she promised and as is usually the case, a pot of coffee is brewing. She pours me a cup and tops up her own. I reach for the warm croissants without waiting to be offered.
I choose to say nothing because I don’t know how to start. I stare out of the window and watch Freya and Davey who are playing in the garden. They are wearing their pyjamas, under their coats, accessorized with trainers. This sartorial chaos is nothing to do with the fact that Amelie is a grieving widow, although to the uninformed observer this may seem the case. Amelie, Ben and the kids often stayed in their nightwear throughout an entire weekend, unless they ventured out or invited company round. Ben always said that this was to symbolizea release from the tyranny of a working week. Although in reality, as he worked from home, his working week wasn’t hampered by a dress code. Amelie has continued the bohemian tradition after his death. It strikes me
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