Nor does Luther. He puts the kettle on.
She says, ‘There’s nice stuff in the tin.’
She means the tall tin of loose-leaf black tea; it’s the kind of thing she brings home from the farmer’s market.
She’ll take great pleasure in showing him these things, lifting them from shopping bags item by item. They linger in the kitchen — him drinking proper tea, Zoe drinking something herbal — and she talks him through the speciality bread, the organic meat, the spices and the wines and the organic vegetables, the rank boutique cheeses. She passes them to him for inspection. He comments on the leanness of the beef, the pleasing density of the bacon, the weight of the organic eggs, the tincture of the wine. He doesn’t have much of a palate, food is food, but he loves those Saturday afternoons in the summer and autumn, sitting here in the kitchen with his wife.
Later, if it’s a really good day he’ll sit reading while she cooks. She’s not a chatty chef; she likes to concentrate, empty her mind. She’s prepared and methodical, first laying out the ingredients strictly in accordance with the recipe.
Only when she knows she’s got everything she needs to hand does she begin to improvise. It’s from this improvisation that she takes real pleasure.
She doesn’t know it, but she talks to herself while she’s cooking, rehearsing work conversations through half-opened lips, observations related to the food, things to do with her working week. Working it all through.
He likes to hunch over his book, only pretending to read, listening. He loves her fiercely and acutely in those moments, running through her private thoughts and imaginary conflicts.
Later, she sips wine and flicks through the Saturday newspapers as he washes up. He doesn’t mind washing up. She’s told him more than once that washing up is in his nature.
Now the water in the kettle seethes and Zoe is looking at him with ice in her eyes. He’s worn out. A muscle in his upper arm twitches. He says, ‘I should have called.’
‘Yes, you should have called.’
‘I was-’
‘Busy?’
Yes, he wants to say. I was busy. But he doesn’t. He says, ‘I’m sorry.’
She takes off her coat, finally. Hangs it over the back of a kitchen chair. Then she embraces him, puts her head onto his neck so he can smell her hair and her skin; even that she’s smoked a crafty cigarette today, probably guilt-ridden and scared on his behalf, pacing the forlorn smoking area outside Ford and Vargas. Calling him names under her breath, hating him because she was scared for him. The smell of that cigarette fills him with tenderness and regret.
‘I should have called,’ he says. ‘I should have. But I was caught up. It was pretty bad.’
‘Because it was a baby?’
Their eyes lock. ‘Babies are never easy.’
She squeezes past him, opens the fridge, takes out the wine.
‘I thought you didn’t want a drink.’
‘I changed my mind. I can do that. I can change my mind.’
She pours herself a glass.
He waits. Then he says, ‘What does that mean?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing means nothing.’
‘Well, that did. That meant nothing.’
Acting on autopilot, she passes him the bottle with the cork half jammed back in the neck. He puts the bottle back in the fridge and slings the heavy door shut.
She gulps wine, then says, ‘We need to have a talk.’
‘We’re talking now.’
‘Not about this. About me and you.’
‘What about me and you?’
‘I think you know. In your heart, you have to know.’
‘Know what?’
‘John, seriously. Do you have any idea how much I hate this?’
‘Hate what, Zoe? I don’t know what we’re saying here.’
‘This marriage,’ she says.
His legs go weak.
He has to sit.
‘You mean being married to me.’
‘No. I mean… me and you together.’
‘I don’t understand. I don’t know what you’re saying.’
‘You do know what I’m saying. I’ve been saying it for years now. I’ve been saying it louder and louder.’
‘You’re really going to do this? Today?’
‘Seriously, John, when would you like me to say it?’
‘I don’t know. When the time’s better.’
‘And when’s that? Because I tell you, I’ve been trying. I’ve been trying and trying. And you just never listen. You turn your back on me, again and again.’
‘If this is about the leave of absence-’
‘Of course it’s not about the leave of sodding absence.’
‘I told you, I swear to God, I absolutely swear to God, I put in the request. Christ, I tried to get myself fired today.’
‘You don’t understand,’ she says. ‘You’re not listening. You never do. You think you do, but you don’t.’
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘I’m listening.’
‘The leave of absence wasn’t a request,’ she says. ‘It was an ultimatum.’
‘I don’t get you. I don’t understand.’
She laughs again, bitterly. ‘To see if you’d do what you promised, just once. And you couldn’t do it. You said you would, time and time again. But you never did. And finally, I decided: I’ll ask once more. And if he lies to me one more time, I’ll know that he always will. He’ll keep telling me what I want to hear, day after day, but they’re just words.’
He blinks in hurt. She pities him. She says, ‘Whatever you’re going to say, don’t say it. Because it’ll be a lie.’
She waits for him to answer. He massages his forehead with the heel of his hand. Takes a breath.
He says, ‘I know.’
She turns to him. ‘About what?’
‘The baby.’
‘What baby?’
‘Our baby.’
Luther gets up and goes to the fridge. He opens the ice tray, removes an ice cube. He rubs it over his forehead. Cold water drips down his shirt.
He shuts the fridge door. He’s shivering, trembling from his feet to his fingertips. He can hear the tremor in his voice. He hates it.
‘I found this little plastic cap,’ he says. ‘Behind the bin in the bathroom. I didn’t know what it was. I thought it was for a thermometer. But it wasn’t. And it worried me. It nagged at me, the way things do. At the time, I didn’t even know why. I should’ve just thrown it away. But it was bugging me. I carried it around in my pocket for like a week. And then for some reason, it clicked. I knew what it was. So I went to the chemist. Bought the three most popular home pregnancy testing kits. Sure enough. You bought the market leader. Very wise.’
She drains her wine. Pours another.
He says, ‘Was it mine?’
‘Of course it was yours.’ Clumsy with nerves, she knocks over the glass. They don’t speak while she gets a roll of kitchen paper and tears off a few sheets. ‘Christ, John. Why didn’t you say anything?’
‘I was waiting for you to tell me.’
