tip out its contents. On to my open palm fall two silver cufflinks. Their design is simple: heavily-wrought silver knots are connected by a gleaming argent arc. They are elegant, unfussy, and beautiful.
I sit down on the bed, my search for drugs forgotten.
After half an hour I carefully put the Tiffany bag back where I found it.
They were unquestionably men’s cufflinks. But they couldn’t be for me. Anna knows I’d never wear them; I own one shirt and one tie which I put on, grudgingly, once a year, for the mandatory appearance at church with Anna’s family on Christmas Day.
But if they’re not for me, then who are they for?
And why has Anna gone to the effort of hiding them?
Suddenly the flat seems unbearably small. The walls close in around me. My discovery of the cufflinks brings all my worries about Anna back, redoubled. Claustrophobia crowds in. Pulling on my coat, I hurry out of the flat. Drawing in cold lungfuls of icy November air, I walk quickly through Camden, hoping to escape my anxieties. The streets are quiet, unrecognisable from the edgy chaos of the weekend and its quick, carnival atmosphere.
I turn left past Chalk Farm station and walk over the bridge which spans the railway lines, towards Primrose Hill. On Regents Park Road, the atmosphere of domestic refinement is in stark contrast to the litter-strewn sprawl of Camden High Street. Leaves dance in the quiet road. I step through the gate at the bottom of Primrose Hill. In the distance two figures, their collars turned up against the wind, walk their dogs. I begin to climb the steep path up the hill. At the summit, the wind whistles past my ears. I almost feel as if I’ve escaped London’s grimy clutches. I look southwards across Regent’s Park and towards the grey, silent city beyond.
What is happening with Anna?
I allow the wind to sweep through me, clearing my head. Up here I am free, shucked from my life. Finally I walk back down the hill, through the long grass towards the swooping aviary of London Zoo. At Prince Albert Road I turn left and trudge back towards Camden, my mind a grateful blank. On the way home I go into the supermarket. After finding everything I need for supper, I wander over to the Household Goods aisle for a spot of thoroughly modern angst.
There comes a time in everyone’s life when the grim realisation dawns that the party is over – that it’s finally time to grow up. This usually happens when people take out their first mortgage, make their first pension contribution, or change their first nappy. Of course, I haven’t done any of those things. For me, the death knell of my carefree youth, the herald of sombre responsibility, was when I started having to buy lavender toilet paper.
Until our bathroom was redecorated I never worried about what colour of loo roll I pulled off the shelf; I chose whatever pastel hue took my fancy. But all that has changed now. Now it’s any colour I like, as long as it’s lavender. Lavender, Anna tells me firmly, is the only colour that works. I have reservations about this rigidly monochromatic approach. Does it really matter whether we use colour coordinated paper? Would it really spoil the overall aesthetic effect if we had Buttercup Yellow, just for once? It’s a bathroom, after all, not an art gallery. But Anna is unmoveable on this issue. Lavender it must be. I pull a pack of four rolls off the shelf and deposit them in my basket with a heavy heart.
I walk home with my shopping. Tonight, as usual, I will be cooking chicken. I am great at chicken. I am a maître de poulet, a fowl supremo. I can grill it, roast it, poach it, steam it, pan-fry it, blanche it, deep-fry it, curry it, stew it, parboil it, barbecue it, griddle it, marinade it, or stuff it. Unfortunately, it’s the only thing I can cook. Tonight, I am preparing pan-fried chicken breasts in a cream, garlic and cider sauce. I put the shopping away and consult the recipe book, even though I won’t be cooking for hours yet.
Lunch is baked beans on toast, and then I settle down in front of the television for my usual afternoon diet of wooden game-shows and repeats of old soap operas on UK Gold. My brain goes numb, which is how I like it nowadays. I resolutely ignore my typewriter on the table behind me. It sits in silent reproach as I stare, eyes glazed, at the television screen. My fingers never stray far from the remote control, as I flash across the networks, praising the day they laid the cable in our street. I try and follow six or seven programmes simultaneously, in an attempt to distract my brain from Anna and the cufflinks hidden in her underwear drawer. It doesn’t work. I cannot get the sight of the heavy lumps of silver out of my mind.
After all the recent changes in Anna’s behaviour, especially after her furtive trip to the cinema, I no longer know what to think.
By the early evening news, I have wound myself into a tight ball of anxiety. I realise that I am going to have to ask Anna about the cufflinks if I am to avoid the descent into fretful madness. I run through various possible opening gambits, trying to decide how to broach the subject. I need something nonchalant, urbane, and relaxed. Every formulation I concoct is nervy, self-pitying, and paranoid.
Finally, at about eight o’clock, I hear the front door open. I feel my heart stretch and skip a beat in anticipation.
‘It’s me,’ calls Anna from the hall.
I get up to greet her. She is hanging up her coat. ‘Hello you,’ she says. I kiss her on the cheek. We walk into the kitchen. Anna sits down at the table and lights a cigarette.
‘So,’ she says. ‘Come on. Tell me everything. What was it like?’
‘What was what like?’
‘Don’t be a tease, Matthew. Seeing your book on the shelves. All that stuff. Did you see anyone buy a copy?’
I sigh. ‘Actually, they didn’t have any.’
Anna looks at me. ‘None?’
‘None.’
‘Oh.’
‘They told me that they’d never heard of me, they hadn’t ordered any copies, and they weren’t going to. It wasn’t exactly the most electrifying start to my career.’
‘Oh, sweetheart. I’m sorry.’ Anna takes a long drag of her cigarette. ‘Have you told Neville?’
I shake my head. ‘He’ll probably be delighted.’
‘Well, don’t worry. It’s only one bookshop, after all. There are plenty more out there.’
‘Hmm,’ I reply doubtfully.
‘How was the rest of your day?’ she asks. ‘What progress on the next masterpiece?’
I think guiltily of my solitary paragraph. ‘Actually, it’s hard going at the moment. I’m struggling with some of the characters.’
Anna grins. ‘Are they not doing what they’re told? Naughty characters.’
I shift uncomfortably. ‘Something like that. The main character, right, Illic –’
‘Illic?’ snorts Anna. ‘What sort of name is that?’
I pause. ‘It’s Eastern European.’
‘Eastern European?’ Anna looks at me strangely. ‘What do you know about Eastern Europe?’
‘Enough,’ I stammer. Actually, I know nothing about Eastern Europe. But everyone accepts that nowadays
