turned to each other, hesitating, then Pete tipped her face up to his. ‘I wish you’d let me say I’m sorry.’
‘You can say it.’ Her voice was raw in her throat.
‘I wish you’d let me show you I’m sorry.’
Alice lifted her hand. It started as a warding-off gesture but her fingers seemed to melt. They rippled over the vee of her top which felt too tight, as if it only just contained her breasts, and fluttered over her belly. Her skin seemed to have developed a million new nerve endings.
Why not? she thought.
Why not just once more, after so many other times?
‘To say goodbye?’ she murmured.
There was a flash of triumph in his eyes, quickly extinguished. But you are wrong, the triumph’s really mine, she thought.
‘If that’s what you truly want to say,’ he answered.
He followed her into the house and closed the door behind them.
The shelves in the bedroom, the top of the chest of drawers, the bedside tables were all bare. Alice’s kitbags with the flag and logo stood packed against one wall.
Pete slid his hands over her, cupping her breasts, drawing her hips against him. ‘You’re different. You’re lovelier,’ he breathed.
Am I? I am not sure that I even recognise myself, she thought.
But her body remembered the familiar rhythms well enough and improved on them. Their lovemaking had always been affectionate, well-practised, almost invariably satisfactory, but tonight it went much further than that. In the absence of intimacy and trust, they were naked and greedy.
Afterwards, Pete lay with his head against her heart, listening to its beat. Her hand lightly cupped the curve of his skull. She could feel his limbs growing heavy as he drifted towards sleep.
I have just taken what I wanted, she thought, without weighing up whether it would hurt him or not.
The notion of revenge had never crossed her mind and this didn’t feel like it, but there was a symmetry here.
Alice closed her eyes and thought of the long journey ahead and the ice waiting for her at the end of it.
In the morning Pete sat at the kitchen table drinking tea and watching her as she made toast from the end of a loaf. She emptied the crumbs out of the bread bin and wiped the inside with a wadded paper towel. She would spend tonight, her last in Oxford, at Boar’s Hill with Margaret and Trevor.
‘Have you finished with your plate?’
He looked at her and she steadily returned his gaze.
‘Are you going so far away because of me?’ he asked.
She smiled. ‘No, Pete. I’m going because of me. And partly because of Margaret.’
Peter sighed. He stood up and looked around the kitchen. ‘I made a good job of those shelves.’
They had come in a flat pack from Ikea. He had assembled them and fixed them to the wall.
Alice suddenly laughed. She felt the upward swing of happiness. Everything was going to be all right. ‘You did,’ she said softly.
‘I’d better get to the studio, I suppose. I’m still working on Desiderata
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