And who could have foreseen the car that would hurtle out of control across a central reservation and, under the force of its impact, toss a helpless five-year-old through shards of broken glass, smashing her fragile skull as she went? An act of God, according to the insurance company. But for Roz, at least, it had been God’s final act. He and Alice had perished together.
Rupert was the first to stay his hand, aware, perhaps, that the fight was an unequal one or because, quite simply, he had sobered up. He crawled away to sit huddled in a corner. Roz fingered the tenderness round her mouth and licked blood from her lips, then closed her eyes and sat for several minutes in restful silence, her murderous anger assuaged. They should have done this a long time ago. She felt at peace for the first time in months, as if she had exorcised her own guilt in some way. She should, she knew, have gone out to the car that day and strapped Alice into the seat herself, but instead she had slammed the front door on them both and retreated to the kitchen to nurse her hurt pride with a bottle of gin and an orgy of tearing up photographs.
Perhaps, after all, she had needed to be punished too. Her guilt had never been expiated. Her own atonement, a private rending of herself, had brought about her disintegration and not her redemption.
Enough, she saw now, was enough.
“We are all masters of our fate, Roz, including you.”
She pushed herself gingerly to her feet, located the jack plug and inserted it back into its socket. She glanced at Rupert for a moment, then dialled Jessica.
“It’s Roz,” she said.
“Rupert’s here and he needs collecting, I’m afraid.” She heard the sigh at the other end of the line.
“It’s the last time, Jessica, I promise.” She gave a hint of a laugh.
“We’ve declared a truce. No more recriminations. OK, half an hour.
He’ll be waiting for you downstairs.” She replaced the receiver.
“I mean it, Rupert.
It’s over. It was an accident. Let’s stop blaming each other and find some peace at last.”
Iris Fielding’s insensitivity was legendary but even she was shocked by the sight of Roz’s battered face the next day.
“God, you look awful!” she said bluntly, making straight for the drinks cabinet and pouring herself a brandy. As an afterthought she poured one for Roz.
“Who did it?”
Roz closed the door and limped back to the sofa.
Iris drained her glass.
“Was it Rupert?” She proffered the second glass to Roz who shook her head to the brandy and the question.
“Of course it wasn’t Rupert.” She lowered herself carefully on to the sofa, half lying, half sitting, while Mrs. Antrobus stalked across the soft fluff of her dressing-gowned chest to butt her chin with an affectionate head.
“Could you feed Mrs. A. for me? There’s an opened tin in the fridge.”
Iris glowered at Mrs. Antrobus.
“Horrible flea-bitten creature. Where were you when your mistress needed you?” But she disappeared into the kitchen and rattled a saucer anyway.
“Are you sure it wasn’t Rupert?” she asked again when she reemerged.
“No. Not his style at all. The fights we have are entirely verbal and infinitely more bruising.”
Iris looked thoughtful.
“You’ve always told me how supportive he’s been.”
“Ilied.”
Iris looked even more thoughtful.
“So who was it?”
“Some creep I picked up at a wine bar. He was more fanciable with his clothes on than off, so I told him to get stuffed and he took exception.” She saw a question in Iris’s eyes and smiled cynically through her split lip.
“No, he didn’t rape me. My virtue is intact. I defended it with my face.”
“Hm. Well, far be it from me to criticise, my love, but wouldn’t it have been more sensible to defend your face with your virtue? I’m not a great believer in fighting over lost causes.” She drank Roz’s brandy.
“Did you call the police?”
“No.”
“A doctor?”
“No.” She put a hand on the telephone.
“And you’re not calling them either.”
Iris shrugged.
“So what have you been doing all morning?”
“Trying to work out how I could get by without calling anyone. At midday, I realised I couldn’t. I’ve used all my
