bandage to check on his sprained wrist, and the gash on his hand. After his bath he had to dress again in the same clothes, and he couldn’t shave. Still Cora didn’t come. There was no reason to think she would be back today, Robert decided: probably she had gone away for the weekend. But he would wait. His wait had transformed into something beyond its ostensible purpose, weighing him down like the silt from his dreams.
A tabby cat persisted in its efforts to make eye contact through the kitchen window; he let it in, fed it the end of the shepherd’s pie. Then he played music. Cora had taken most of the music when they separated, and some of the CDs he recognised as his, from before he knew her: the Amadeus playing Beethoven late quartets, Solomon playing Mozart. These had been his mother’s favourites, he liked them for her sake, even though he hadn’t been close to her. He had used to dread the scenes she made. Probably he’d been horribly priggish, he thought now. His mother must have thought he was trying to imitate his father’s detachment. She must have seen through the stubborn, principled stands that Robert made when he was a boy and a young man, pretending he was the only sane and reasonable one, conforming to some inflexible standard of decency and decorum, while all the time he was burning with a rage like hers, only turned inwards. In Robert’s dreamy, sluggish state now, the music penetrated him purely, without distraction.
The letter he wrote late Friday afternoon, on Cora’s laptop, wasn’t to her. The things he wanted to say to Cora – ask her – couldn’t be written, they could only be communicated face to face. That was what he was waiting for. In the meantime, he was writing a letter of resignation. He explained to the Permanent Secretary the whole sequence of events that had led to his absence from work on Tuesday, and in the days following: that on his way to work as usual on Tuesday he had been involved in an accident on the wet steps leading down to the Underground station, sustaining significant bruising down his right side and a sprained wrist, also a deep cut on his hand that had produced a quantity of blood that was not really significant, but alarming enough for someone to call an ambulance. The paramedics had insisted on taking him to UCH, where they had stitched him up and X-rayed his wrist and given him a tetanus injection, keeping him in for observation, because he seemed to be exhibiting some symptoms of mild amnesia, not remembering where he lived or worked. Because of this temporary amnesia he had failed to let the office know where he was, and he apologised for any inconvenience this may have caused. In the meantime, as he recovered, the unexpected interruption to his routines had given him an opportunity to reflect on his deep dissatisfaction with his present work-life balance – entirely his own fault – and he had decided to terminate his relationship with the Civil Service from this point.
It all sounded magnificently unconvincing, although apart from the amnesia it was more or less true. It had not been amnesia, it had been something stranger – a dark tide of malaise, a conviction of disaster – that washed over him as he lay on the filthy floor, where he had been thrown quite accidentally by a boy who’d tripped over an elderly woman’s umbrella and then fallen into Robert with all his weight. Everyone had been most concerned, and kind. He had wanted to reassure them, but he had lain silent, as if speech had been knocked out of him, or some ancient rusting machinery in his chest had locked on impact and refused to function. Probably his silence had frightened them more than the blood. He hadn’t spoken at the hospital, either – he had only written on a pad whatever they needed to know, and in the end after two nights of broken thin hallucination that was not quite sleep, he had discharged himself, simply walked out. Probably he had not spoken to anyone since his fall (except perhaps the cat). At Paddington he had bought his ticket from a machine.
There were other aspects of the story that had no place in his letter: for instance, that the Underground station where he fell was King’s Cross and not his usual one, and that he was there because he hadn’t slept at home on Monday night, but had slept alone in a Travelodge in Gray’s Inn Road, after an evening with a nice woman, an old friend from work, which probably both of them had meant to end in something more, but which had not. He had never intended, of course, to take this woman friend with him to the Travelodge – he might not be romantic, but he wasn’t quite that bad. He had meant to go home with her, after they finished dinner, to where she had a nice little place off Upper Street: he had gone home with her a couple of times before, since Cora left. But when he did not – even though the friend made it clear that he was welcome – then he didn’t want to sleep in his own flat, either. He was developing quite a horror of that flat, for a rational man. He’d already moved out of the bedroom he’d shared with Cora into the spare room, because it was less haunted.
Before he began writing, as a token of his re-establishing connection with a world outside, Robert had turned on his phone without checking it. When he was halfway through his letter, Frankie called. He cleared his throat, and talk was easy after all.
– Bobs! I can’t believe it’s actually you. Where on earth are you? Everybody’s going mad here!
– Don’t worry about me, I’m absolutely fine. Didn’t you get my text?
– Didn’t you get ours? Cora sent you one just after we got yours.
– I haven’t checked my in-box. Where is Cora?
– Well, that’s the strange thing. She came up here, because you were missing and I was sort of holding the fort at your flat. Damon took your laptop, by the way.
– Who is Damon? I don’t care about the laptop.
– A ghastly SPAD. Is it all about the inquiry?
– I’m just rethinking my work-life balance.
– I can’t believe you’ve actually said that. That’s the kind of thing I’m supposed to say, and you laugh.
– So Cora’s at the flat?
– No, that’s just it. She slept there last night, in case you came back, but she was supposed to go home to Cardiff today, that’s what she said she was going to do. But I’ve just had the most extraordinary call – from Bar, of all people.
– Bar?
– Exactly. And how did she get my number? I can only think she got in touch with Elizabeth, and she gave it to Bar. Anyway, I’m sure she was drunk, in the middle of the afternoon. Not Elizabeth. Did you know she had a son – and exhibits at a gallery in Savile Row?
– I knew about the paintings. They’re rather good.
Frankie explained that apparently Cora had turned up at Bar’s house, somewhere in deepest Devon; she had got the address out of Robert’s book, and seemed to think Bar might have him stashed away somewhere.
– Probably I shouldn’t be telling you this, Frankie said. – But it’s all kind of extraordinary.
– Are you sure Bar didn’t just get the wrong end of the stick?
– She was definitely pissed.
Cora, outside on the street, was searching in her bag for her keys. It was an awful moment: the street turned its stony face to her, implacable in the hard, dull afternoon light. She was supposed to leave spare keys with her neighbours, but they were often out. Anyway, she had a feeling she hadn’t returned those keys since last she’d borrowed them back – they might still be in the pocket of her other coat. She was dog-tired and felt like crying. But what was the point? Sturdily she brought herself around to her new perspective, facing forward. She had better go down to the locksmith.
Then the door swung back, as if under the force of her will, which had pressed at its resistance without hope – and Robert was there, utterly unexpectedly. He looked awful, unshaven and in his socks.
– You left your keys in the door.
Irrationally she was angry, or her anguish sounded like it.
– Where have you been? she protested. – I’ve been looking for you everywhere.
In the shower an hour later, Cora thought she would confess to him. She would confess everything – that her heart had been fastened by heavy chains for a long miserable time to another man, and now it wasn’t. She would confess all this before they consummated their reunion in bed. She would show him Paul’s article – she had almost left it on the train, and then at the last moment she had put it in her bag and brought it with her – and she would get out all Paul’s books and show them to Robert and then she would throw them all away. Cora was remembering her old, candid, self: unafraid, flinging open all the doors to the rooms of her life. She had put out fresh towels on the heated rail and the pelting hot water streaming off her was a glory. She had forgotten this exulting happiness was possible. In the garden beyond the open bathroom window a blackbird sang out in the intensifying late- afternoon light; the day was lovelier for hiding behind its grey veil. Robert had gone to buy shaving gear and clean underwear and clothes – God only knew what he’d come back with. She had laughed to think he’d have to go to the local Peacocks because there was no time to get into town before the shops shut.
– What’s Peacocks?
– Don’t you know anything? she’d teased him. – Don’t you know how ordinary people live? Then you’ll have to
