Page 16 of The Affair
He snorted. ‘Oh, come on, Connie. That’s ridiculous. He adores you. You know he does. I didn’t mean to wind you up.’
‘You aren’t,’ she said, but felt tears behind her eyes. ‘Would I even know, if he was having a thing withsomeone else, when we communicate so little these days?’ she asked.
‘Of course you would.’ Neil was firm. ‘He’d be weird and secretive, giving you far-fetched excuses for where he’s going, then coming back late, smelling of someone else’s soap. Devan never goes anywhere, you say.’
But what Connie was really asking was whether Devan would know thatshehad been – however fleetingly, however unintentionally – tempted by someone else.
She waited a quarter of an hour before seeing her husband’s head appear round the pub door, then braced herself.
‘Sorry,’ Devan said, not explaining why he was late. He sat down, laying his phone carefully on the table between them. Connie had bought two glasses of red wine. It was a Monday and the place empty so early, except for Dix – the resident drunk – perched on his habitual stool at the far end of the bar.
‘How’s Neil?’ Devan asked eventually, as if he were madly searching for a topic of conversation with his own wife.
‘Fine. Sends his love.’ Connie did not elaborate. She was on a mission and not going to be diverted, given the suspicions Neil had planted in her mind. ‘Devan, can we talk about something? Your phone, what exactly are you doing on it all day?’
He looked surprised, then frowned. ‘Why? Does it bother you?’ His tone was not quite rude, more nonchalant as he reached for his glass and took a large gulp.She was pretty sure she couldn’t detect any shiftiness in his expression.
She ploughed on regardless, accompanying her words with a poor attempt at a laugh. ‘I feel like Princess Diana, these days. There are three of us in this marriage.’
Devan was silent. Then he said quietly, ‘Or one.’
Confused and taken aback, she just stared at him.
The glance he shot her implied she was being disingenuous.
‘I need to spell it out?’ He took another gulp of wine. ‘You spend virtually seven months of the year on your trips. Then you come home and all you do is monitor me, criticize me.’ He let out a pained sigh. ‘As soon as you step through the door, I feel judged. The house isn’t tidy enough, the surfaces not wiped enough. I haven’t beendoingstuff. Plus, I’m not chipper, I drink too much and don’t give you enough sex. And now my phone’s an issue?’ He raised his eyebrows in apparent exasperation.
Connie squirmed. There was some truth in what he’d said – although he chose to exaggerate, as always, the time she spent away. But it was his tone that dismayed her. It was so totally devoid of tenderness. ‘Don’t you wonder why I behave like that?’
He gave a careless shrug. ‘Because you’re feeling guilty? You know I hate you going away, so when you’re home you pile in and try to polish me up … so you won’t have to worry about me when you leave the next time.’
Again, his assessment was not far off the mark. She did worry about him and would rather not have to. ‘Ionly feel guilty because you make me,’ she said quietly. She hadn’t tasted her wine. The quantities of strong coffee she’d recently consumed had turned to acid in her stomach.
He stared stonily ahead, as if she hadn’t spoken.
‘Are you saying you’re fine as you are, if only I would stop nagging you?’
‘No. I’m not saying that. I’m not fine. I’m bloody lonely when you’re away. That’s why I’m on my phone all day. With my back playing up, it’s my only companion.’ At another time, his blatant self-pity would have made Connie laugh. ‘And I can’t properly settle to anything because then you come home and interrupt, expect me to be on tap again.’
‘Settle to what?’ She knew she sounded dismissive, but he, a grown man, was being so childish, so unfair, she could barely control her irritation.
Devan drew himself up, crossing his arms. ‘OK, I’ll tell you. I want to do a history degree with the Open University. I want to learn to sail. I want to walk the Pennine Way … like you always said we would.’
Connie was silenced. Yes, they’d often discussed that walk over the years. But the history degree and the sailing were entirely new. He’d never suggested he might be interested in doing either. Was this real, or was he just making something up to throw her? She barely knew him enough, these days, to answer her own question.
Deciding to call his bluff, she said, ‘Well, that’s great. Why didn’t you tell me? I thought you’d do something medically related, but sailing sounds fantastic.’ Hedidn’t respond, maintaining his aggrieved expression, so she went on, ‘Tell me more, Devan.’ He let out another long sigh, his face softening. But he still didn’t speak, just bowed his head and began picking at his thumbnail. ‘I’m not stopping you doing any of those things, you know.’
Silence fell.
She remembered the days when her husband had been up at six thirty every morning, off to work with a spring in his step, totally involved with his surgery, his patients, the team with whom he worked. He’d arrive home exhausted, full of the dramas of a long day … although still interested in whatever Connie had been up to, how school had gone for Caitlin.I never complained, she thought,about his long hours, his dedication to work.I never suggested he give it up for me, even when Caitlin was small and I was virtually a single mum. It was just a given that she would keep the home fires burning. But he was not now returning the favour.
‘When did we lose touch?’ she asked eventually, pressing his hands as they lay clasped in his lap. He shrugged as she squeezed them. ‘Devan?’
His fists just sat there beneath hers, unresponsive, as if he couldn’t feel her touch – or couldn’t bear it – and she pulled away. After what seemed like an eternity to Connie, he raised his head, his blue eyes dark with reproach. ‘I don’t know where we’re going, you and me.’
She felt a powerful judder shoot through her body, as if she’d walked into a lamp post. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Surely you can see.’ He gazed forlornly at her. ‘Thisis supposed to beourtime, Con. We’ve worked all our lives. Now, we’ve got, what, twenty years left? And that’s if we’re lucky. Probably even fewerfityears when we can do stuff. But you intend to be gone for at least half of that.’ He sighed theatrically. ‘It tells me something. You’d prefer to be off with a bunch of strangers than here with me.’ He stopped but he hadn’t finished. ‘It’s making me think …’
