Free The Lie of You: I Will Have What Is Mine by Jane Lythell Page B

prognosis negative! ”then she does this great thing with her eyes and rushes out of the restaurant.’
    ‘No need to see it now. You’ve done such a brilliant job describing it,’ I said.
    ‘That’s only the first act. It gets better. Don’t you like old movies?’
    ‘Sometimes...’
    I knew I was sounding unenthusiastic. He looked crestfallen. He was not trying to upset me. He knows nothing about my depression or how much I had loved my analyst. It was not my task to comfort him. There was an awkward silence as the waiter walked over and took our plates away. I ran my finger around the rim of my glass.
    ‘I think I’ve upset you,’ he said.
    ‘No, Robert, you have done everything to make it a lovely evening. Don’t mind my northern glooms.’
    He reached for my hand. ‘Heja, I wish you felt able to open up to me more. What brought on the glooms?’
    ‘It’s too difficult,’ I said, my eyes on the tablecloth. ‘Not like it is in the movies.’
    He left it then. He does not push it if I give the signal so far and no further. He expected us to take a taxi back to his flat. He was expecting sex after that expensive meal. I told him I really could not. I had brought my car and needed to go back to my flat. I had a demanding day ahead of me tomorrow. He insisted on walking me to my car. We stood under the lamp-post and he put his arms around my waist and looked down at me a bit mournfully with his large brown eyes.
    ‘Are you sure you want to drive?’
    ‘I’ll be fine. I only drank one glass of wine.’
    ‘Did I drink all the rest?’
    ‘When wine is that good it slips down. Thank you for taking me there.’
    ‘Can we meet up this weekend?’
    I agreed to meet him on Saturday. It is getting more difficult with him. He has started to want more than physical intimacy. As I drove home I wondered when I would have to end the relationship.
    I parked and took the lift up to my apartment. Then I poured myself a small glass of wine and sat at my great window, looking out at the river. These were my special moments when I could be alone and at peace. I could see lights from a few craft twinkling on the river. Markus was strongly in my thoughts again. How he would love this flat and this view.
     
    The first time my mother met Markus she set out to insult him. We had been together throughout our time at university. My parents found out about him when he was filmed leading the occupation at the university. He was all over the evening news. A friend of my mother’s, whom I had never liked, told her that she had seen me with Markus on several occasions; that I was clearly involved with the student revolutionary!
    So finally, after I had graduated, Markus was invited to dinner at my parents’ house. I had my first junior job in television then and he was still studying for his architecture qualification. I was apprehensive about this meeting. My mother could be so cold and critical and would let people know if she did not approve of them. I travelled home the night before. I wanted everything to be just right for him. My mother had bought a large tray of takeaway moussaka from the delicatessen, which she planned to serve up with a salad. The next evening she laid the table with earthenware plates and goblets for the wine.
    ‘Rather fun to be a bit rustic, don’t you think, Heja?’ she said.
    I was beside myself. Had Markus been someone she approved of she would have cooked an elaborate meal for him. Her finest porcelain and silver would have been brought out. She was making a point. He was a socialist, so let him eat takeaway.
    The beauty of it was that Markus preferred it that way. I was standing next to her as she opened the door to him and I felt her shock of recognition when she saw him standing there. His eyes were more dazzling than any TV camera could ever capture. He followed her into the sitting room and my dad got up and shook hands with him.
    My mother said, ‘We’re going to be informal tonight. I