Free Separate Beds by Elizabeth Buchan Page A

stinging insects whirling through the rank, confined cellar and it made Annie feel breathless. ‘Come upstairs. I’ll make the coffee.’
    ‘You go. I’ll finish stacking.’
    Annie paused at the top of the steps and called down, ‘You will get another job. Wait and see.’
    He didn’t answer.
    In the days that followed, Annie left for St Brigid’s at the usual time, abandoning Tom to work through his addressbook and sound out his contacts. In the evenings, he reported that, so far, there was nothing doing.
    That week had turned into the next and dwindled to the weekend.
    Saturday morning. After an uneasy night, Annie emerged from her bedroom and almost collided with Tom. On impulse, she pulled him into the privacy of her room and shut the door.
    ‘What on earth …?’
    Tentatively, she touched his cheek – a gesture that felt odd and out of practice. ‘You must talk to me, Tom. I mean … if you need to?’
    ‘I’m doing my best.’
    ‘We’re not good at talking.’
    ‘Why tell me that?’
    ‘You must say what you feel. I’ll listen.’ She fixed her gaze on him. ‘Tom, you might like to. You might need to.’
    He looked amazed. ‘No, I might not.’
    OK. She was wasting her breath and took refuge in pulling back the curtains. The rings clanked and rattled on the rod and daylight flooded in. ‘But I wanted to say that I am here.’
    Tom acted as if he hadn’t heard anything she’d said and inspected a photograph on Annie’s dressing-table. It showed Jake and Jocasta wrapped up in outdoor things with Maisie, bundled up like a tiny fat dormouse, between them. ‘Didn’t know you had this.’
    ‘Taken at Christmas.’
    ‘Jocasta doesn’t look that happy.’
    ‘What do you mean?’ Annie peered over his shoulder.
    ‘What I said. Jocasta looks unhappy.’
    ‘You mean, she isn’t grinning like a maniac?’
    Tom replaced the photograph and moved towards the door. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
    ‘Tom …’
    But he had vanished and she had no option but to follow him downstairs.
    As she entered the kitchen, he held up a sheet of paper. ‘What’s this?’
    ‘Shopping list.’
    ‘“Micro-economic management”,’ Tom read out, ‘divided into two sections. “Family economies” and “Me”.’ He looked up. ‘That’s honest, at least. What comes under the first?’
    ‘Easier to say what doesn’t. Organic steak, blueberries and quilted loo paper, that’s what. It’s Raspo from now on.’
    ‘And “Me”?’
    ‘Me’ was more problematic. Of course she could find economies on a list that included hair, facials, waxing and manicures, but not without a pang. Clothes were not so vexed, for Annie had retreated into her blouses, black office skirts and trousers some time ago.
    She cut a slice off the loaf and dropped it into the toaster. ‘Your mother always said you have to make do with what Mother Nature saw fit to allocate. So, it looks like I’ll be giving Mother Nature a go.’
    The toaster emitted a clicking noise, which didn’t bode well for its general health. ‘Should we talk about money?’ Her lips were suddenly dry. ‘Go over the figures again? We haven’t got very far.’
    ‘Yup. We’d better.’ Tom poured cereal into a bowl.
    ‘Did you talk to Emily?’ Annie asked eventually.
    ‘Yes.’ Tom was even more clipped.
    ‘And?’
    ‘As you might expect, Emily understood. She’s a good girl.’
    She placed the toast in front of Tom. ‘You must eat.’ She watched him play with the cereal. ‘What are you going to do today?’
    ‘Unpack the stuff from the office.’ Pause. ‘Actually, I thought the shed might be better. I might tackle clearing it out. It hasn’t been touched for years.’ He roused himself visibly to ask. ‘And you?’
    ‘Oh, shopping as usual,’ she said, through gritted teeth.
    Instead of saying, ‘I’ll give you a hand,’ which would have been really very helpful, Tom said, ‘OK, I’ll be here when you get back.’
    A little later, Annie threw