Page 5 of The Affair
‘I’m sick to death of you and Caty implying I’m depressed,’ he said wearily. ‘Depression is an illness, Connie, like lung cancer or diabetes. Its symptoms are well categorized.’ He raised his hand and began ticking off on his fingers. ‘I don’t feel hopeless about the future. I’m not tearful. I’m not anxious. I still take real pleasure in lots of things – like a good glass of wine ora rugby match.’ He gave her a tight smile. ‘I’m not depressed.’
She didn’t speak, noting there was no mention of herself in his current list of pleasures.
‘Maybe I’m not on top form at the moment,’ he went on, ‘but that’s mostly to do with my bloody back. And if you seriously think I’m going to share my innermost thoughts with either of those smug twelve-year-olds, then you’ve got another think coming.’
His look challenged her to disagree. But she still said nothing. What was the point?
‘I’m going to take a shower,’ he said, turning away.
Connie heard him slowly climb the stairs, then a minute later the sound of the shower pump from the bathroom. She sat down again, exhausted. She had no idea how best to help him. He’d always been wilful – it was what had made him a good doctor. He would fight to the bitter end to secure the care he thought a patient needed. But when it came to himself, he was blind as to how his actions were affecting himself and all those around him.
Tears pricked behind her eyes as she thought back to his repeated pleas that she should retire, or scale back her tours. She didn’t feel her age in the same way Devan clearly did. Her shoulder-length auburn hair had help from Janine at the village hairdresser, these days, and her grey eyes required drops because they were dry. She needed reading glasses, but she’d recently ordered varifocal contact lenses,Which I must pick up before I go away again, she reminded herself. But she wasstill slim – despite the irritating pad of post-menopausal stomach fat that seemed resistant to all her efforts – and her fair, freckle-prone skin still smooth because it never went in the sun without Factor 50 and a hat. But it wasn’t really about looks. Connie didn’t feel like a woman in her sixties on any level. She was fit and energetic still, and she knew she was good at her job. Her tours provided so much pleasure: to give them up now might crush her.
If Devan keeps going on at me like this, she thought,it’s not going to end well. She didn’t examine what she meant by this, not then, but she felt her stubbornness limbering up, like a substitute on the touchline waiting to run onto the pitch. Throughout her childhood, as her mother had often reminded her, Connie’s stubborn nature had been a thorn in her side.
3
The family were coming for Easter. Connie had been so looking forward to it – they rarely had time to make the trek to Somerset. Ash’s punishing schedule as a television producer and the demands of his extensive family in Manchester usually resulted in Caitlin coming with just Bashir. But she had been worried about how Devan would cope with having a small child in the house for two days, even though he adored his grandson.
She remembered the day they’d met Bash for the first time. It was the morning after the birth, the hospital room boiling hot, Caitlin flushed and puffy, dazed as she carefully handed Devan the baby. Connie would never forget the absolute absorption on her husband’s face, the intense love in his eyes as he tenderly cradled his grandson for the first time, the little bundle so small and frail in his man-sized arms. She had been overwhelmed, realizing that the huge love she felt for Devan, and he for her, had now spawned two further generations of love. Thinking of that moment now, she told herself nothing had really changed. But the unquestioned closeness, the feeling of being part of a loving team, no longer seemed so evident.
The days since the drunken binge had been quiet at home. Connie had not thought at the time that he’dheard what she said, but he did seem to be making more effort, pointedly doing things about the house – like sanding the scarred kitchen table, a job he’d been talking about for months. He couldn’t keep it up for long, though, and she would come home from shopping or coffee with a friend to find him slumped in front of some match or other, one hand clutching his phone, the other cradling a glass of red wine – often fast asleep. He was utterly resistant to going out, even for a walk, and sent Connie on her own to supper with friends. ‘Tell them it’s my back,’ he’d say. And when she’d raise her eyebrows at him, he merely snapped, ‘It’s true.’
But the prospect of seeing his daughter and grandson seemed to spark him up, and Saturday morning saw a version of the old Devan, spruced up and standing straight, even coming with her to the supermarket and offering to make his famous sausage pasta for supper. Connie held her breath, hoping this resurgence would last at least till Sunday night.
As Devan fussed over which brand of penne was best, she leaned on the trolley in the supermarket aisle and remembered with a pang the first time he’d cooked her sausage pasta, about twenty years ago now. She had always been the family cook, but that January weekend she’d slipped on black ice on the pavement outside the house when she’d taken their previous dog, a rescue greyhound called Corky, for a walk just before it got dark.
Devan had examined the painful area, gentlymanipulating her foot, then held a packet of frozen peas to her ankle and rubbed in pain-relief gel. He’d settled her on the sofa, her foot elevated on a cushion, then handed her a cup of tea. Caitlin, about twelve at the time, was having a sleepover with a friend, so they had the house to themselves. Devan could not have been more solicitous.
He’d stroked her head as she lay there. ‘I’m doing supper. Going to surprise you.’
She’d laughed, looking sceptical. ‘Beans on toast?’
He’d tapped his nose with his finger. ‘Trust me, I’m a doctor.’
Over the next hour or so, Connie had been aware of waves of intense and focused industry emanating from the kitchen. Occasionally, as she dozed or read her book, Devan would pop his head round the sitting-room door, cheeks flushed with his exertions. ‘Where’s the sieve?’ or ‘Have you seen that small knife with the black handle?’
Eventually he summoned her to the table, almost carrying her into the kitchen, where candles lined the centre of the carefully laid table. The smell was mouth-watering. She noticed herRiver Cafécookbook open on the side – which she’d read, but never cooked from, the ingredients mostly high-end Italian and not available locally.He never does things by halves, she’d thought, amused at the rooky cook’s ambition.
Devan had uncorked a bottle of wine, and her tummy rumbled in anticipation at the dish of steaming penne and bowl of tossed green salad he set before her.
‘Hope it’s OK,’ he said anxiously, as she prepared to take the first bite. ‘I couldn’t get proper Italian spicy sausages, so these are just normal ones and I added more chilli.’ He watched her closely, seeming to hold his breath as she lifted her fork to her mouth.
The pasta was gorgeous, rich and robust but … She gasped. Her mouth was suddenly on fire, her eyes spouting water, her head feeling as if it were about to explode. She spluttered and grabbed for her glass, gulping the wine as if it were water. But it did no good, only made her choke.
She could see Devan’s stare – clearly offended – through the blur of her tears.
‘Hot … hot …’ She tried to speak, fanning her open mouth. And as she saw him lifting his own fork to his lips, she held out her hand. ‘Don’t.’
But Devan kept going, thrusting in a huge mouthful of pasta, his scornful expression implying she was being pathetic. She watched as he chewed for a moment. Then his face, too, contorted and he dropped his fork with a clatter. She could almost see steam coming out of his ears.
A second later they were laughing – huge gasps of mirth that had them clutching their napkins to their burning mouths, tears of laughter and pain running down their bright red, sweating faces.
‘Didn’t you check it?’ she managed to ask, when she could finally get her breath.
Devan wiped his eyes, his face crumpling with laughter again. ‘I thought it tasted a bit insipid, so Ithrew in three of those dried chillies from that old plastic bag in the herb drawer.’
‘Oh, my God, you’re kidding! Those are the ones I got from that roadside stall in Turkey last year, remember? They’re absolutely lethal.’
