Jane had been paying more attention as Philip jabbered on. She was getting it now, and maybe for the first time in their marriage she was gathering a full understanding of how little her husband understood what he had bought, or about the terms of the contract. She settled her wine on the table and spoke in a calm, measured tone: ‘How do you see me now, Philip?’
Her husband was looking at the salt and pepper, at his hands around the empty squid dish. He glanced up at her briefly, but he couldn’t seem to articulate what he wanted to say. ‘I… It’s…’
‘I’ll help you,’ she said. Her pulse had not raised, her hands remained calm; this was something she simply had to do, a form that needed filling out—an animal that should have been euthanized long ago. ‘You think I’m cold. You think I’m distant. You think I don’t find you interesting or attractive.’ Her voice retained the same level stillness, like a pond.
‘Jane…’ He could feel a whirring in his ears and found it difficult to move his jaw; it was like he’d been caught in the middle of something indecent, his crime projected for everyone to see, his need to deny it coming not from that fact it was untrue, but from having unclean feelings exposed. She seemed to sense this, though.
‘It’s fine, Philip. You’re right. It doesn’t have to be a nagging suspicion anymore. Your impression over time, well, it’s spot on, old chap…’ The whirring in his ears became hot and loud. The rouge images of the art gallery, her laughter, the turning of her head — they were breaking into shards. Across the restaurant he could hear someone laughing. ‘I’m just sorry you didn’t understand the terms sooner; if I’d known, I would have made it clear.’
‘What do you mean…?’ He was unused to the forward rush of emotional honesty; the abruptness of it all scared him and made it difficult to sort. She was a teacher explaining the lesson too quickly. ‘You don’t love me?’
‘Jesus, Philip!’ She’d raised her voice, squishing him with it. ‘This is what love is!’
Philip’s eyes had become glassy. Behind them, sixteen years of stock memories were shuttering and clicking, twining and looping — whole reels of life being watched again and reviewed, watched again and burnt. ‘This isn’t what I wanted,’ he stammered.