Free The Beautiful Indifference by Sarah Hall Page B

hadn’t inquired how much the procedure would be and no initial fee had been given on the phone. Anthea had not mentioned money either, but of course she had fewer financial concerns. The divorce must have benefited her, or perhaps she had inherited; she owned the town house on Cloet Street, none of her jewellery was costume or paste, and though her weekly column brought in only a moderate salary there was never any talk of being stretched. I could stop at a cash machine and make a withdrawal, but this would create obvious problems later. If The Agency accepted cards I would be able to go into the personal savings that I kept separate from the joint account and used for birthdays. But then there would be a record. I tried to anticipate an appropriate sum, but it was impossible. As much as a year’s worth of dental insurance for the family? A holiday, or a second-hand car? I had no idea what such a service cost. Heat bloomed through me and I felt suddenly nauseous. Aside from everything else, the thought of paying out hundreds of pounds without John’s knowledge made my hands weak.
    I lowered the window an inch or two, and took a deep breath. Air buffeted into the car. It was cool and damp, and brought with it the tarry smell of the road. The wind was getting worse, and the brake lights of wagons in the inside lane began to flash on and off. A few heavy raindrops hit the windscreen, and then it began to shower. I slowed down. There was no rush. Volleys of leaves flew across the carriageway and stuck under the wiper blades. I imagined myself caught by a strong gust, losing control of the car, ploughing through the central reservation and across the oncoming lanes. I imagined them finding me, hanging inside a cage of crumpled metal, slack-necked and bleeding over the dark red suit. The family would not know why I had been going into the city, dressed as I was. I thought of John’s face, stricken, his fingers pinching his hips, trying hard not to break down, just as he had at his mother’s funeral before collapsing into grief. And an old memory came too, of the night John and I had met, our first time in an upstairs room full of coats, the music of the party below like another layer between the world and us, his face contorted as he moved, his hand gripping my throat, the rawness, and his breathless incapacitation when it was over. There had been a fierceness in the beginning, before we really knew each other, before we settled into our tender, more considerate patterns. I saw myself in those early years, holding the railings of the headboard, braced, pushing against him, fighting for control of the space we were using. I saw John, pinning my arms down, his vast movements, the sheets pushed outwards and outwards like a ruined form. It was suddenly clear to me that this was madness. What I was doing could not possibly go unmarked. Surely some slip, some twist of fate, would give me away, and it would be impossible to explain. There was no explanation. Even I did not understand what I was doing.
    I glanced in the rear-view mirror, indicated, and pulled over onto the hard shoulder. I took my hands off the steering wheel, squeezed them into fists and shook them. Wagons rumbled alongside the car, spraying the windscreen. Tailwinds made the car shudder. I glanced at the dashboard clock. It was nine forty-five. There was still time to think, time to reconsider. I took a familiar CD from the glove box, inserted it into the player and the first track began.
    I had been married for fourteen years. There had been no crimes committed on either side. There was so little to regret. But in the end, thinking of our life together made no difference. It was as if love had become scentless, bloodless, it had somehow lost its vitality. I put the car into gear, waited for a gap in the traffic and pulled away.
    After navigating the unfamiliar road system, I found a car park near The Agency’s address. The building was on a quiet street. Its