Read The Telling Error for Free Online Page B

is how it feels: like hollowing out my heart and stuffing it full of greyness.
    The darkest patch of my life.
Was that an over-the-top way to put it?
    In February, thanks to King Edward – King Edward VII, to give him his full alias – I considered taking my own life. For a few days I wasn’t sure that even the thought of Sophie and Ethan, motherless, would be enough to persuade me to stay in this world.
    I’m about to sign out of Hushmail when a new message appears in the inbox.
    Gavin.
Oh God. Christ, God.
Of course it’s him: no one else knows I have this email address. I used to email King Edward from a Gmail account. I didn’t know Hushmail existed until I answered Gavin’s advertisement and he wrote back from a Hushmail account.
    How has he managed to reply so quickly? Has he been sitting in front of his computer for three weeks and four days, waiting?
    I hope he hasn’t. Almost as much as I hope he has.
    I try to grasp the mouse, aim wrong and knock it off the table. Having restored it to its place on the mat, I take a deep breath and click to open the message.
    It’s one line long:
    More detail about your encounter with the police, please. G.
    I type an equally short response:
    No. It was horrendous. I want to forget it ever happened.
    I don’t sign off with my usual ‘N x’. I hope this is a tactful way of demonstrating that we are no longer an item, insofar as we ever were. My replying doesn’t mean I’ve entered back into a correspondence with him, and this exchange has nothing to do with sex. He’s just being nosey; as soon as he sees that it won’t work, he’ll give up.
    Another new email appears in my inbox. I open it.
    All right, so you had a brush with the police and decided you couldn’t write to me any more – fair enough (or I’m sure it would be, if I understood why). So what changed today? Did they only just let you out of jail? G.
    I smile in spite of myself.
    So, Gavin turns out to have a sense of humour. Is that so bad? Not all charming, funny men are evil. Adam, for example.
    My fingers hover over the keyboard. I want to answer, but how can I justify responding a second time if I really want to break this off?
    Does Gavin think that if he puts nothing sexual in his messages, I’ll decide it’s OK to write to him?
    If we’re not going to do the cyber-sex thing, what’s in it for him? Or for me?
    I don’t want him as a platonic friend. That would be awful. If I have to choose between types of loss – and it appears that I do – I’d rather have the sudden dizzying kind, not a long-drawn-out diminishment.
    I type:
    No jail. I saw the same policeman again today. It reminded me that it was because of him that I’d stopped writing to you. I decided I owed you an explanation. That’s all. Please stop emailing me. I don’t want to be your pen pal. All or nothing for me, and it has to be nothing. Again, I’m so sorry. N x
    I press ‘send’.
    All done.
    Log out, Nicki. Why are you still sitting here, staring at your inbox? How devastated will you be if he doesn’t write back immediately?
    Then why did you order him not to?
    His reply arrives within seconds.
    I agree: you owe me an explanation. What happened with the policeman? First time and second time, please. All or nothing is a sound principle – and since you’ve already given me some of the story, you must now supply all of it. G.
    This sounds more like the Gavin I’m familiar with: wooden. Giving me orders. Desire stirs inside me. I shift in my chair.
    Should I tell him? If I don’t, he’ll never understand, not really. Can I bring myself to write what happened in an email? The prospect makes my skin prickle.
    I click on ‘reply’. Downstairs, a door bangs shut, making me jump.
    ‘Kids!’ I call out. ‘Don’t slam the door!’
    ‘Not kids. Me. Sorry.’
    Adam.
Shit.
    Terror floods my body, freezing me in place. It’s a few seconds before I can move again. I grab the mouse. ‘I’ll be down in a sec,’ I