Free Between Friends by Jenny Harper Page A

chocolate biscuits that had been Jane’s passion.
    ‘There, Jane, isn’t that lovely. He’s remembered. Now Tom dear, I must go, but I’ll see you before you disappear, now, won’t I? I want to hear all your news.’
    ‘Of course, Mrs Porter. I’ll come round again, just say the word.’
    ‘Bye Jane. I’ll collect Ian from school.’
    Jane still hadn’t moved.
    ‘Where’s your kettle?’
    As he moved towards her, she jumped aside.
    ‘Hey. What’s this? Witchy?’ He stopped a few inches in front of her and looked at her searchingly. ‘No need to be afraid, Janie dearest. Life’s moved on, hasn’t it?’
    Tom could feel tremors. She was like a rabbit, trapped and fearful. What fun. There it was again, the old feeling of power. Even the stirring of desire.
    No. That would be unwise.
    ‘There.’
    He kissed her forehead and stepped into the kitchen.
    ‘Nice. Bit shambolic, perhaps. Not like your friend Marta’s house. Now there’s a woman who likes to be organised, don’t you agree? Kettle? Oh yes, here it is. Mugs? You’ll have tea too, I hope ?’
    ‘What do you want, T-Tom?’
    He swung round and looked at her.
    ‘Want? Just to see you, Janie, that’s all. Talk about the old times. Here. Shall we sit down?’
    She sank onto a chair obediently. Already she was a servant to his will, no longer mistress of her own home.
    Old patterns replaying themselves. Learned behaviour. Remembered ways. He’d always loved the way she bent so pathetically to his will.
    ‘So. Tell me. What’s new in your life, Janie? Or no, I think I can tell you that. Let me see. The husband. Solid man you have there, Witchy. A bit unimaginative, I reckon, not the creative type, more of a plodder, hardly sex on legs but loyal, I would guess. Am I right? Quite unlike me, in fact, in almost every respect.’
    He laughed, a real laugh, from the stomach.
    ‘Not a bad thing, I suppose, bearing in mind my track record.’
    Jane sat like a stick, straight but brittle, ready to splinter at the slightest pressure.
    ‘Three children. Are these the dear mites?’
    He picked up an old school photograph from the dresser. ‘I would have thought they would be a little older, or did you decide to wait a bit? After your little mistake.’
    Little mistake.
    That first week – Christmas week – she didn’t eat, sleep, or talk to anybody, she just walked round the streets, through the parks, tramping the soles off her shoes until she could feel every rut, every crack on the pavement, every pebble, on the paths. Then it was back to work. Music was her balm. Music would help her heal.
    One day when she was out at a rehearsal, he sneaked back and packed all his things. He even took some of her favourite CDs and she no longer had the energy to be angry. She struggled across town to rehearsals, bowed her way mechanically through concerts, found a way to survive.
    Then it got worse – much worse.
    She was numb. She wasn’t eating much. She began to suffer heartburn. She felt wretched, exhausted and querulous. She plodded doggedly into rehearsals and prayed that her lack of form didn’t show.
    One day, standing on the Tube clutching her cello, she was staring vacantly at a beautiful young woman with the blackest of skin and the sweetest face and thinking vaguely how nice it would be to be able to paint, when the light in the train receded to a pinprick. For a moment, all she could see was a large gold cross glistening on the soft contours between the girl’s breasts. And then that, too, went dark and the last thing Jane was aware of was a dull thump.
    Later, she realised the noise must have been her body hitting the floor of the carriage. She resurfaced at some point to a circle of curious faces peering down at her and a sensation akin to seasickness. She closed her eyes, turned her face to one side, and felt the roughness of tweed on her cheek. Someone had rolled up a coat and placed it under her head.
    ‘You alright, my darling? Clear a space,