Little Boy Blue

107

They ate in silence. Jane was well tuned to his moods and could tell when Jonathan had had a bad day at work. Her default tactic in those situations was not to probe or hassle him; instead she would hand him a glass of cold white wine and get on with the business of cooking their dinner.

She had cooked one of his favourites – linguini alle vongole – but he could barely taste it tonight. He was on auto-pilot, twirling the pasta slowly round his fork then lifting it to his mouth, barely conscious of what he was eating. He didn’t care a jot for the consequences of his actions today – he felt confident he could ride out any formal complaint Helen might make. It was the betrayal that burnt. He had wanted her like he hadn’t wanted any woman for years and she had pushed him away. Why had she toyed with him if she wasn’t interested?

Gardam finished eating and pushed his bowl away. Looking up, he caught Jane staring at him. She’d obviously been concerned when he returned home with two deep scratches on his cheek, but seemed to accept his story of a jogging accident. Now, though, Gardam wondered if she was having her doubts. The scratches were long, straight and clean. Would you expect that type of injury from a low-hanging branch? The question was whether she would respond to these doubts, asking him outright. He wanted her to ask. He would tell her that he hadn’t slept with another woman, but he wanted to. He would tell Jane that he found her predictable, bourgeois and anodyne – both in the bedroom and out. He would tell her that their marriage was comfortable and routine, characterized by his career ambition and her appetite for a nice, middle-class lifestyle, but that when you boiled things down, when you got down to primal needs and desires, she meant little to him. Helen was the woman who occupied his thoughts now. Despite her savage rejection, she remained there still – in his brain, in his gut, but worst of all in his heart.