SATURDAY, JULY 13, 2013
EVENING
It’s not until we get into the car that I notice he hasblood on his hand.
“You’ve cut yourself,” I say.
He doesn’t reply; his knuckles¹ are white on thesteering wheel.
“Tom, I needed to talk to you,” I say. I’m trying tobe conciliatory, trying to be grown-up about this, butI suppose it’s a little late for that. “I’m sorry abouthassling you, but for God’s sake! You just cut meoff. You—”
“It’s OK,” he says, his voice soft. “I’m not?.?.?. I’mpissed off about something else. It’s not you.” Heturns his head and tries to smile at me, but fails.
“Problems with the ex,” he says. “You know how itis.”
“What happened to your hand?” I ask him.
“Problems with the ex,” he says again, and there’s anasty edge to his voice. We drive the rest of the wayto Corly Wood in silence.
We drive into the car park, right up to the veryend. It’s a place we’ve been before. There’s neveranyone much around in the evenings—sometimes afew teenagers with cans of beer, but that’s about it.
Tonight we’re alone.
Tom turns off the engine and turns to me. “Right.
What is it you wanted to talk about?” The anger isstill there, but it’s simmering now, no longer boilingover. Still, after what’s just happened I don’t feel likebeing in an enclosed space with an angry man, so Isuggest we walk a bit. He rolls his eyes and sighsheavily, but he agrees.
It’s still warm; there are clouds of midges under thetrees and the sunshine is streaming through theleaves, bathing the path in an oddly subterraneanlight. Above our heads, magpies² chatter³ angrily.
We walk a little way in silence, me in front, Tom afew paces behind. I’m trying to think of what to say,how to put this. I don’t want to make things worse.
I have to keep reminding myself that I’m trying todo the right thing.
I stop walking and turn to face him—he’s standingvery close to me.
He puts his hands on my hips⁴. “Here?” he asks.
“Is this what you want?” He looks bored.
“No,” I say, pulling away from him. “Not that.”

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