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to anything but the comfort of his surroundings and his delight in my presence. I’m scared that any second he’s going to lean back in his seat, sigh contentedly, and say, ‘This is nice.’ I want anguish, pain, confusion.
    â€˜I mean, do you want me to leave home? Come and live with you? Run away with you? What?’
    â€˜Blimey.’
    â€˜Â â€œBlimey”? Is that all you’ve got to say?’
    â€˜I hadn’t really thought about all that, to be honest. I just wanted to see you.’
    â€˜Maybe you should think about it.’
    â€˜Right now?’
    â€˜You do know I’m married with kids, don’t you?’
    â€˜Yes, but . . .’ He sighs.
    â€˜But what?’
    â€˜But I don’t want to think about it right now. I want to get to know you better first.’
    â€˜Lucky you.’
    â€˜Why lucky?’
    â€˜Not everyone has that sort of time.’
    â€˜What, you want to run off with me first and find out about me later?’
    â€˜So you just want an affair.’
    â€˜Is this the right time to tell you that I’m staying here tonight?’
    â€˜I beg your pardon?’
    â€˜I booked a room here. Just in case.’
    I drain my drink and walk out.
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    (‘What was that all about?’ he asks me the next time I see him – because there is a next time, and I knew there would be even as I was getting into the taxi that took me back to my husband and family. ‘Why did you walk out on me at the hotel?’ And I make some weak what-kind-of-girl-do-you-think-I-am joke, but of course there’s nothing much to joke about, really. It’s all too sad. It’s sad that he doesn’t know why I didn’t respond to his seedy nightclub-owner gestures; it’s sad that I end up convincing myself somehow that the man capable of making them is a significant and valuable figure in my life. We don’t talk about sad things, though. We’re having an affair. We’re having too much fun.)
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    When I get home, David has put his back out again. I don’t know that this will turn out to be a turning-point in our lives – why should I? David’s back is always with us, and though I’d rather not see him as he is now – in pain, lying motionless on the floor with a couple of books under his head and the cordless telephone, its battery in need of recharging (hence, presumably, no message on the mobile), balanced on his stomach – I’ve seen him like this often enough not to worry about it.
    He’s even more angry than I was expecting him to be. He’s angry with me for being late (but so angry, luckily, that he isn’t really interested in where I’ve been or what I’ve been doing), angry with me for leaving him to cope with the kids when he’s incapacitated, angry that he’s getting older, and that his back troubles him more frequently.
    â€˜How come you’re a doctor and you can’t ever fucking do anything about this?’
    I ignore him.
    â€˜Do you want me to help you up?’
    â€˜Of course I don’t want you to help me up, you silly bloody woman. I want to stay here. I don’t want to stay here and look after two bloody kids, though.’
    â€˜Have they had their tea?’
    â€˜Oh, yes. Course. They had some of those fish fingers that climb under the grill on their own and cook themselves.’
    â€˜I’m sorry if that was a stupid question. I wasn’t sure when your back went.’
    â€˜Fucking ages ago.’
    There is no careless use of the f-word in this house; it’s all done very, very carefully. When David swears like this in front of the children – who are only pretending to watch television, seeing as how their two heads swivel round immediately when they hear a word they shouldn’t – he is communicating to all of us that he is unhappy, that his life is terrible, that he hates me, that things are