would be needed to cover that red mark.
¦
When she finally got into James’s car, although he glanced at her without comment, she could sense his disapproval. She should tell him what had happened, but somehow to confess that she had reached the shaving age seemed impossible.
James actually thought Agatha had put on too much make-up as an act of defiance. His cancer treatment was to start the following week. He would start to lose his hair and men he would need to tell her something. He had meant to tell her that evening, imagining a soft and sympathetic and womanly Agatha. But Agatha, he thought sourly, had never been soft or womanly.
So on the road to Oxford and throughout dinner, he talked about his new book, which was to be about the Normandy landings in World War II. Agatha ventured that surely enough had been written on them already and then promptly realized that, once again, she had said the wrong thing. As usual with James, she felt she was facing an unbreakable wall of resentment.
“We should be talking about what we really need to talk about,” said Agatha abruptly, cutting through one of James’s history lessons. “I can assure you, Charles is just a friend. Nothing has been going on. What about you and Melissa? What prompted you to take her for a drink in the first place?”
That usual look of distaste and weariness which always crossed James’s face when confronted with any intimacy of conversation was back again. “I told you, I happened to meet her in the pub. Then I knew Charles was with you, and so…Do we really need to go through all this?”
“Yes, we do,” said Agatha. “Did you sleep with her?”
“No,” said James. He despised the euphemism. What he had done with Melissa could hardly be described as sleeping.
“Do I have your word on that?”
“I have to trust what you say about Charles and you have to trust what I say about Melissa, or there is no point in going on.” He suddenly smiled at her. “Let’s forget about the whole sordid quarrel.”
Agatha melted before that smile. “About my job. The concert is next week and after that I will be a lady of leisure again.”
“Good,” said James. I should tell her about the cancer, he thought. Maybe tomorrow.
¦
They made love that night. Pillow talk had never been James’s forte and yet Agatha tried. “It seemed a good idea keeping our separate cottages, James, but now I don’t think it very sensible. Why don’t we sell our cottages and buy somewhere bigger?”
James thought of Agatha being perpetually underfoot, Agatha with her bad cooking and her smoking. He manufactured a faint snore.
Agatha rose on one elbow and peered in the moonlight al his apparently sleeping face, and then fell back on her pillow with a little sigh. Perhaps she should settle for a James-type marriage. James, it appeared, would rather they lived separately and dated. She had this job to finish. Yes, perhaps she would try things his way.
¦
For the next couple of days, harmony reigned. James worked al his computer and Agatha worked at her public relations. In the evenings they met up for dinner, and then retired to bed and made love. I’ve cracked this marriage business, thought Agatha gleefully.
But on the third day, she decided to take her washing along to her own machine and check on her garden. She had just put the first load in when the doorbell rang. If that’s Charles, thought Agatha uneasily, I’ll need to tell him to go away. But when she opened the door, it was to find her friend, Detective Sergeant Bill Wong, standing on the step. Bill was a young man in his twenties, with an oriental cast of face inherited from his Chinese father. Normally chubby, he was looking trim and fit, and so Agatha led him into the kitchen and said, “You’ve got a new romance.”
“How did you know?”
“You’re looking fit and you always look fit when you’re in love. Who is she?”
“She’s a saleswoman. Works in that Miranda boutique.” I’ve been in there, thought Agatha, and was served by a hard-faced redhead. “Not the one with red hair?”
“That’s her. My Mary.”
“She’s a lot older than you, surely.”
“A bit. I like mature women. So how’s marriage?”
“It’s okay. We had a few rocky bits but we’ve settled down nicely. Any juicy murders?”
“Nice and quiet. Just the usual drug busts, car thefts, and burglaries. Why have you kept on your cottage?”
“It’s a modern marriage, Bill. We like our own space.”
“The pair of you could afford a big house and have all the space you need.”
Agatha bit her lip in vexation. She had ventured her suggestion again that they buy one big place, but James had stonewalled it by murmuring, “Maybe. I’ll think about it.”
“Oh, we’re happy as we are.”
The doorbell rang again. “I wonder who that is?” Agatha went to answer it and found herself facing Melissa Sheppard. She made to slam the door in the woman’s face, but Melissa cried, “We need to talk. Poor James.”
Agatha hesitated and then said curtly, “Come in.” She led the way into the kitchen, introduced Melissa to Bill, and then said to the detective, “I think it’s a private matter, Bill.”
“All right. I’ll phone you and we’ll have lunch sometime.” Agatha saw him out and reluctantly returned to the kitchen. Melissa was wearing a tight tube top which exposed her tanned midriff. Her skirt was short and her bare tanned legs ended in high-heeled sandals.
“What?” demanded Agatha.
“I had to see you. I wondered how poor James was getting on with his treatment. He won’t speak to me.”
Agatha sat down slowly. In that moment, she felt as if part of her had floated to the ceiling and was looking down at two women sitting at a cottage kitchen table.
“What treatment?” she asked. Her voice sounded dry and dusty to her ears.
“For his cancer, of course.”
“Oh, that,” said Agatha. Her heart was hammering hard and blood was drumming in her ears. “Very well.”
“I’m so glad. You must have been devastated when you heard the news so soon after you got married.”
“I’ve got used to the shock. Do you mind leaving?”
Melissa got to her feet. “We should be friends, Agatha. We have so much in common.”
Agatha looked up at the hard, tanned face above her and said, “Look, sweetie, we have bugger-all in common. Just move your scrawny arse out of my kitchen and never come here again. And stay away from James!”
“If James will stay away from me,” mocked Melissa. She stood for a moment, but Agatha sat, rigid and unmoving.
Melissa shrugged and walked out. Agatha heard the front door slam shut.
James. Cancer. James. Cancer. Over and over it sounded in her head. And he hadn’t told her. He had told Melissa.
The doorbell went again. She rose like a robot and went to open it.
“Christ,” said Sir Charles Fraith. “You’re as white as a sheet.”
“Something terrible has happened,” said Agatha. “Come in.”
“James?”
Agatha nodded dumbly.
In the kitchen, Charles pressed her down into a chair and went and fetched a goblet of brandy. “Drink that.”
“I don’t understand.” Agatha began to cry, great gulping sobs racking her body.
Charles took one of her hands in his and waited patiently until she recovered.
“Tell me about it, Aggie.”
