Free Sleeping Arrangements by Madeleine Wickham

his e-mails and typing unnecessary replies. Sometimes he would read the same message ten times over.
    When this was done, and they were still not back, he would turn to whichever corporate challenge had most recently been drawn to his attention. He would read the data and process the information, then shut his eyes and submerge himself in the world he knew better than any other. He would sit in complete silence, working out alternate strategies like a chess player, like a military general. The more complicated, the more distracting, the better. Some of his most inspired work was done on a Saturday.
    Amanda, he knew, often described him as a workaholic, rolling her eyes heavenwards.
    Her friends would sit, drinking coffee in her immaculate kitchen, and swap sympathetic comments. You're the equivalent of a single mother, they would say indignantly. What happened to New Men?
    Three years ago, Hugh had come home, cold and weary, and with a proposition he had dreamed up on the train. That he should give up his full-time job and go freelance as a management consultant. The money wouldn't be as good—but he could work from home, and spend far more time with her and the children.
    He had rarely seen Amanda look so appalled.
    Hugh took another swig of his drink, then wandered out of the kitchen into the drawing room—then out of the french windows into the garden. The sky was a mid-blue, the air warm and quiet. Gerard's garden was obviously tended by those who knew what they were doing, he thought. Shrubs were trimmed, flowers arrayed neatly in beds, a small stone fountain trickled clear, cold water. He turned a corner, wondering how far it went, and stopped.
    Chloe was standing by a wall, resting her head in her hands, as though in prayer. Immediately he tried to retreat, but she had heard a sound and looked up. Her cheeks were flushed; her blue eyes fierce with some emotion he couldn't fathom. For a few moments they gazed at one another in silence—then Hugh, tritely, raised his glass.
    'Cheers. Here's to . . .' He shrugged.
    'A happy holiday?' Hugh flinched at Chloe's sarcastic voice.
    'Yes,' he said. 'A happy holiday. Why not?'
    'Fine,' said Chloe. 'A happy holiday.'
    Hugh took another sip of his gin and tonic. But it tasted wrong out here, sharp and dis-cordant. He should have been drinking a soft red wine.
    'Why did you lie?' he said abruptly. 'Why did you pretend we haven't met?'
    There was silence, and Chloe pushed her hands through her wispy, wavy hair. She looked tense, he suddenly thought. Tense and exhausted.
    'I've come away with my family for a break,' she said, looking up. 'To get away from it all.
    To forget about all our troubles and . . . and find ourselves again. To be alone. As a family.'
    'What troubles?' Hugh put his drink down and took a step forward. 'Is something wrong?'
    'It doesn't matter what troubles,' said Chloe curtly. 'They're nothing to do with you. The point is—' She broke off and closed her eyes. 'The point is, Philip and I—and the boys, for that matter—we need this time. We need it. And I don't want any complicating factors getting in the way.' She opened her eyes. 'Especially not some . . . crappy, meaningless little fling.'
    Hugh stared at her.
    'You thought it was meaningless.'
    'Not at the time, no.' Chloe's face hardened slightly. 'But time teaches you what was actually important—and what wasn't. Time teaches you a lot of things. Don't you think?'

    There was a still, taut pause. A drooping white flower behind Chloe's head swayed a little in the breeze, then, as Hugh watched, silently discarded a petal. He followed its path with his eyes; watched it land on the darkening ground.
    'I never had a chance to explain myself properly,' he said, looking up, aware that his voice sounded awkward. 'I . . . I always felt bad.'
    'You made yourself perfectly clear, Hugh.' Chloe's voice was light and scathing. 'Crystal clear, in fact. And it's really not important now.' Hugh opened his mouth to