I'm telling you Mr Monroe: the man they killed last night may have sinned every day of his God-given life – but he was the most righteous man I have ever known.’
Saturday, 9.50pm, Brooklyn That night in the kitchen where they did all their talking, Will followed traditional custom. Beth was cooking pasta, he was tagging along behind her, washing each pan and spoon as she finished with them. This was smart strategy, he reckoned: forward planning, prevent the washing-up mountain after dinner. Will was talking Beth through his day.
‘The guy's a scumbag pimp, but when he sees this woman in distress, he sells his most personal possessions to help her. A woman he doesn't even know. Isn't that incredible?’
Beth was stirring, saying nothing.
‘I'm not sure what Glenn will make of it, but this woman, Letitia, felt Macrae had saved her life. That he had saved her. That's something isn't it? I mean, that will make a piece.’
Beth seemed faraway. Will took that as a sign of success, as if his point had struck home, stunning his wife into contemplative silence.
‘Anyway, enough about that. How was your day?’
Beth looked up, her stirring hand stilled. She held him in a long, cold gaze.
‘Oh Christ, I just realized—’ Beth's note from this morning. Big day today. He had read it and forgotten it. Instantly.
Beth said nothing, just waited for him to explain himself.
‘I went straight to work and then I got stuck into this story. I must have had my phone on silent while I was interviewing that woman. Did you call?’
‘“I just realized.” How can you say that? You can't “just realize” this, Will. That's not how it works. Not this.’
She was speaking with that voice of iron calm which almost scared Will. It was reserved for when Beth was truly furious. He imagined she had acquired this kind of steel as part of her psychological training: never lose your cool. He admired it in the abstract, but could not bear to be on the receiving end.
‘I've been thinking about nothing else for weeks and you “just realized”. You completely forgot!’ Now the volume was rising. ‘You had all day—’
‘I was working—’
‘You're always working or thinking about work. You don't even remember what should be the most important thing in our lives, and I can't eat or sleep or shower or do anything without thinking about it.’ Her eyes were reddening.
‘Tell me what they said.’
‘You don't get off that easy, Will. If you wanted to know what they said, you should have come to the hospital with me. You should have been there with me.’
Each of those last four words were heavy as anchors. Of course he should. How could he have forgotten? It was true what she said: he had thought about nothing but this story from the moment he woke up.
He knew he needed to break out of this procedural stage of the conversation – why had he missed the appointment? – and move fast onto the substance: what had the doctors said? But how to make the shift? There was only one person he knew who would instantly understand how to pull off such a conversational manoeuvre, what psychological trick to play. That person was Beth.
‘Babe, I am completely in the wrong. I can't believe I missed that appointment. And I don't deserve to know what happened. But I really want to. We will talk about this whole other thing – me obsessing about work – I promise. But, right now, I think you should just tell me what happened.’
She was sitting now, still holding the wooden spoon. In a barely-audible whisper, as if the air had been sucked out of her, she finally spoke. ‘They didn't examine me; it was just a “chat”. And they said we should keep trying for another three months before they'll consider treatment.’ She sniffed deeply, reaching for a tissue. ‘They said we are both perfectly healthy, we should give it more time before “taking the next step”.’
‘That's good news, isn't it?’ said Will, half-aware that this was a tactical error – the premature move into cheer-up mode before the silent, listening phase was complete. Rationally, he knew that what Beth needed most was to talk, to get it all out. Not to have to argue, explain or defend anything. He knew that in his head, but his mouth had had different ideas, instantly wanting to make things better.
‘No, as it happens, I don't think it is good news, Will. I don't think it's good news at all. It just makes it more fucking mysterious. If my eggs are so perfect and your sperm is so fucking tip-top, why the hell CAN'T WE HAVE A BABY?’
She threw the wooden spoon at the wall, where it splattered tomato sauce into a Jackson Pollock pattern, turned and fled for the bedroom. Will chased her, but she slammed the door. He could hear her crying.
How could he have screwed up so badly? He had promised they would go to the clinic together, that he would take an hour or two out during the afternoon. Instead he had gone to work and clean forgot about everything else for the rest of the day. He had even sent a BlackBerry message – about work – to Beth at the time of the appointment. He knew what his psychologist wife thought. That he was throwing himself into his career to avoid dealing with the real issue: four years of marriage, two years of unprotected sex and one year of serious ‘trying’ – and still Beth was not pregnant. Will knew it looked like that, but she was wrong. This was not some new phase. He had always been ambitious. Even at college, he had worked hard: when he was not editing Cherwell he was trying to hawk tales of university life to Fleet Street. That was what he was like.
The phone rang.
‘Will?’
‘Oh, hi, Dad.’
‘I was just calling to see if you enjoyed the concert.’
‘Yes, of course. I loved it,’ Will said, running his fingers through his hair and facing the floor. How could he have been so stupid? ‘I should have called. Amazing choir.’
‘You sound subdued.’
‘No, just tired. It's been a long day. Remember that thing I was called out on after the concert, that killing? I had this idea to take what everyone thinks is a bog-standard murder and see what really happened. “Portrait of a crime statistic”, the life behind the death, that kind of thing.’
Beth's presence behind the slammed door of their bedroom was burning up the apartment. Surely he should be going over there, talking through the door, coaxing her back out. Or at least coaxing his way in.
‘That's good thinking. What did you find out?’ ‘That he was a low-life pimp sleazeball.’ ‘Well, I guess that's no great surprise. Not in that place. Still, I can't wait to read your IMF piece: much more you, I suspect. Listen, Will, Linda's gesturing. It's a dinner for Habitat – “you know who” is here – and we're expected to mingle. Speak soon.’
Even on his nights off, thought Will, his father and his ‘partner’ – a word Will could not bring himself to utter except in quotation marks – were doing something morally worthwhile. Habitat
