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scattering villagers.
        ‘Who’s that?’ I asked a nearby fisherman, and somehow knew he was going to answer, ‘Marina Maclean.’
        I’d forgotten to get any potatoes and I went back to the main store. Three old biddies were having a yap, they didn’t hear me come in.
        Did you see Rory Balniel’s wee bride?’ said one.
        Pur lassie, so bonny,’ said the second. ‘She might as well have married the divil.’
        ‘There’ll be trouble ahead,’ said the third. ‘Now young Dr. Maclean’s back again.’
        Then they suddenly saw me, coughed, and started taking a great deal of interest in a sack of turnips.

CHAPTER EIGHT
        
        THE feeling of unease I’d had since the first night of my honeymoon grew stronger. Another fortnight passed. I had to stop fooling myself that our marriage was going well.
        I was so besotted with Rory I wanted to touch him all the time; not just bed touching, but holding hands and lying tucked into his back at night like two spoons in a silver box. But Rory seemed to have no desire to come near me, except when he made love to me, which was getting less and less often.
        I tried to kid myself he was worrying about work. I knew about geniuses, secretive, more temperamental, of finer grain than ordinary mortals, and more easily upset.
        I tried to talk to him about painting, but he said I didn’t understand what he was doing and, anyway, talking about it ruined it.
        I was in the kitchen one morning. I had learned to be quiet when work was going badly, the clatter of a pan could drive him mad. He wandered in yawning, rubbing a hand through his hair, looking so handsome with his sleepy, sulky face, I felt my stomach tighten.
        ‘Do you want some coffee?’
        ‘Yes, please.’
        Feeling more like a normal wife, I went into the kitchen, started percolating coffee, and sighed inwardly for the days when Nina and I had lived on Nescafé. I thought of the beautiful, haunted girl in the blue Porsche.
        ‘I keep seeing Marina Buchanan,’ I said.
        Rory looked at me. ‘So?’
        ‘Not to speak to,’ I stammered. ‘She’s terribly beautiful. Shall we ask them to dinner?’
        ‘I’m sure they’d enjoy your cooking.’
        I bit my lip. I didn’t want a row.
        ‘I’m sorry about my cooking. I am trying.’
        ‘Sure you are, extremely trying.’
        ‘Rory, please, what’s the matter? What have I done? You haven’t laid a finger on me for at least four days.’
        ‘You can count up to five? That is encouraging,’ said Rory acidly.
        ‘Most newly weds are at it all the time,’ I said.
        ‘We might be, if you were less unimaginative in bed. I’m surprised all your exes didn’t expect something a bit more exciting.’
        I jumped back as though he’d hit me. Sometimes there was a destructive force about Rory.
        ‘God, you bastard,’ I whispered. ‘If you were a bit more encouraging, I might be less unimaginative. And if I’m no good in bed, why the hell didn’t you say so in the beginning?’
        ‘I was probably too drunk to notice,’ he said. ‘I hate you,’ I screamed.
        I stormed out of the room, rushed upstairs and threw myself on the bed, bursting into tears. Five minutes later I heard a door slam and his car driving off down the road.
        I cried for hours. ‘He’s only doing it to hurt me,’ I kept saying, trying to reassure myself. I got up, washed my face and wondered what to do next.
        I thumbed through a magazine. You could have pulled corks with the models’ hair. I liked music but you couldn’t listen to records all day. I supposed I could put on a deeply felt hat and go for a walk.
        I sat up, dismayed: I realized I was bored. No one was more aware than I that boredom was a mark of inadequacy. People with inner resources didn’t get bored. No; as Rory had discovered, I’d got hidden shallows. I went to the