Excuse me.’ And she left the room.
And although she was still in a state of extreme shock, and still trembling, she was beginning now to see – to realise – to understand – that the thing which was truly wrong was not so much the dreadful scene into which she had just been precipitated, as the misapprehension (whatever it might be) which had given rise to it: she was beginning now to understand – and she became more certain by the minute – that Jonathan’s ‘conclusion’, however rational in itself, could have derived only from a hugely wrong, a wholly false, initial assumption, and that all that was now necessary was the careful discovery of this assumption and the calm revelation of its falseness. Now that she knew what she must do there was nothing truly to worry about, nothing truly to fear. She had stopped trembling; she went and made the tea, and took it into the sitting room.
They were both silent while she poured it out; she handed Jonathan – still standing at the mantelpiece – a cup and then she began to take the cellophane off the cigarette packet.
‘I’ve asked Winkworth’s to send someone round on Monday morning to do a valuation,’ Jonathan said. ‘I thought that was the fairest way. Property prices haven’t moved much since we bought this place, but I thought if we got a valuation now, I’d be prepared to give you your share of the current value or your original stake, whichever is the greater. If you see what I mean. Can’t say fairer than that; I hope you agree.’
Nicola lit a cigarette. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Couldn’t possibly be fairer.’ She inhaled. ‘There is a problem, though,’ she went on. ‘Oh, I suppose you’re thinking about the f and f,’ said Jonathan. ‘I’m sure we can sort that out easily enough.’ ‘No, that’s not it,’ said Nicola.
‘What then?’
‘Jonathan, do sit down.’ He looked reluctant, but did so. She took another drag. Even though she had seen what she must do, it wasn’t easy to begin. ‘The problem,’ she said, ‘the problem is, that I don’t actually understand what all this is about. I mean, something has evidently gone wrong, badly wrong: and I don’t have a clue what it is.’
Jonathan looked surprised, and even slightly pained. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing’s gone wrong. Nothing in particular, that is. No, truly. It’s just the whole thing. It’s us. We’re wrong. I mean, as a couple. I thought you’d realised that as well as I had. You know how it’s been. Well. Need I go into it?’
If this was the initial assumption, the revelation of the falseness of which would lead to the collapse of Jonathan’s entire argument, then hard as it had been to begin, it would be harder still to continue: his speech had thrown her into a state of even deeper shock and pain. She began to tremble again.
‘I evidently don’t know how it’s been,’ she said shakily. ‘Of course we’ve had out sticky moments, every couple does, but – but – I thought we were happy’. And with these words she began, at last, to cry. Her tears began to fall quite heavily; she could not speak further, and began even to sob. Jonathan, sitting at the other end of the sofa, took a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her silently – a large square of rumpled, but clean, linen. She buried her face in it and wept uncontrollably for some minutes. The world she had inhabited having been smashed to pieces (whose jagged edges cut her wherever she turned), it was the only natural thing to do.
Jonathan waited, staring into the fire which was not there, until Nicola’s tears subsided; at last she blew her nose, and looked up. She could almost have wished her tears to continue, for the icy darkness of this dreadful new consciousness. Whatever was wrong was deeper and more secret an affair than she could have guessed. It lay in the very heart of their lives, it lay in them, it lay, for all one knew, in their actual souls: if souls they possessed.
‘I don’t understand you,’ she said once more. ‘I don’t understand anything you’ve said.’ And she could not have spoken, could never have spoken, so truly. Her whole mind was black with incomprehension. Jonathan had stood up again; he leaned once more against the mantelpiece. ‘I think that rather proves my point, doesn’t it?’ he said.
Even now she could not quite believe that he could say such a thing to her, at such a moment. She was silenced, but at the same time she found that tears had once more filled her eyes. She picked up the handkerchief and wiped them away, but more came; she was on the point of sobbing again. ‘It’s just the shock,’ she found herself thinking; ‘it’s simply the shock.’
Jonathan made a shrug of impatience. ‘Please don’t cry any more,’ he said. ‘It really isn’t helpful.’ He poured some more tea into her cup. ‘Here, drink this,’ he said. ‘You’ll feel better.’
She left the tea where it was. ‘I’m sorry you’ve taken this so – hard,’ he said. She knew, instantly, that he had been on the point of saying ‘badly’, and had stopped himself just in time. ‘I really didn’t expect it. That you should have thought we were happy was the last thing I expected. But there you are. We don’t understand each other, as you said. We’ll be much better off by ourselves’. And he said this almost with satisfaction. It was clear that he thoroughly believed it.
It was only now that the likeliest, the most banal, explanation occurred to Nicola’s dazed and grief-stricken mind.
‘Is there someone else?’ she said. She looked at his face carefully, steadily. His surprise was unmistakable; he even looked rather affronted by the suggestion. ‘No, of course not,’ he said. ‘I would have told you if there had been.’
There was a pause. ‘No,’ he continued. ‘No one else. Just us.’ ‘Us,’ she repeated. ‘And now, it seems, there’s no us.’ He said nothing: an infinite boredom seemed to have possessed him: she recognised that expression, she remembered this sensation: he had hardened his heart, and closed his mind, against her. He would answer no questions, he would be cold to every appeal; she was altogether, for the present time at least, shunned. She recognised that expression, she remembered this sensation of death-in-life, and she was filled with a desolation which made her tears of a few minutes ago seem luxurious. ‘Jonathan,’ she said; ‘don’t do this.’
He ignored her. She might not have spoken. He picked up the tea-tray. ‘I’ll sleep in the spare room,’ he said. ‘Are there sheets in there?’ She looked away from him with a kind of disgust, and ignoring this too he went on. ‘And by the way, I’ll be away at the weekend – parents.’ Just so. And tomorrow was Friday. ‘I’ll go straight down after work. Okay?’ She shrugged slightly, still speechless, and got up. ‘Well, good night,’ he said blandly. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’ She stared at him dumbly, and left the room. Having been cast out by him, she now found – as she had found before – that she was capable only of speaking and acting, even to a degree apparently of feeling, like a stranger. But struggling, terrified and helpless, a loving and trusting Nicola shrieked in anguish from the depths of this stunned and frozen stranger.
‘Are you doing anything tonight?’
‘Not
