Free The Gap of Time by Jeanette Winterson Page A

thought about it he knew it was unreasonable and so he did what he always did and didn’t think about it.
    But now Leo was thinking about something he didn’t want to think about and he couldn’t stop thinking about it.
    His wife and his baby weren’t his wife and his baby. He knew it with every fibre of his being. What a cliché.
    —
    Leo pulled into the drive and parked the Jeep in the garage. He was calm now. He looked normal. He walked straight to the annexe.
    He wanted Xeno’s briefcase and laptop. He put on the light. Why was the room empty? He had spoken to Xeno in here just before he had left for the charity event. Leo went into the bedroom, opened the cupboards, then the bathroom door. Xeno had checked out as neatly as if it were a hotel.
    —
    Pauline was sweeping up the glass round the smashed-up Fiat while Cameron and Xeno hooked it onto the tow bar of the Range Rover.
    “He doesn’t normally do drugs,” said Xeno. “He must have started at the party and got off his head.”
    “But why would he do that?” said Pauline. “He’s been clean for years.”
    Cameron looked at Xeno. “He thinks you’re having an affair with MiMi.”
    Xeno and Pauline stood still like animals who’ve heard the hunter.
    “He told me so himself.”
    Xeno stood up. His face looked gaunt under the harsh low neon.
    “I’m not having an affair with MiMi.”
    “MiMi,” said Pauline. “Gevalt, where is she?”
    “At home, of course,” said Cameron. “I took her myself. Why? Where are you going?”
    —
    Leo threw the table lamp across the room. It broke against the wall. Xeno knew he knew. Knew he knew what he knew. And he had got away. Someone had helped him. That was why MiMi had been in a hurry to be gone.
    Leo went towards the house.
    —
    MiMi was sleeping.
    Leo opened the bedroom door. He had taken off his shoes. Now he took off his jacket.
    MiMi always slept with a night-light, a low, soft, child’s rectangle of moonlight. And she liked the curtains open. Leo could see her clearly, one arm across the pillow, her body curled on its side in a white kaftan.
    Leo stood over the bed. He loved her so much. His feelings were a mixture of tenderness and pleasure and wonderment that she loved him. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for her. He kept cuttings of all her press notices. It was him, not her, who had the awards lined up in his study at home.
    And she was so tiny, a bird of a woman—no, she wasn’t a bird because she had muscle—she was a flower—but she wasn’t a flower because she wasn’t for display—she was a jewel—but she wasn’t a jewel because he couldn’t buy her.
    He sat on the edge of the bed, watching her sleeping, his mind moving over the past, or perhaps it was the past moving over his mind.
    Do you remember when Milo was a little boy and you were singing in Sydney and we went up to Byron Bay for the weekend and we were swimming near the lighthouse and there was a rip tide? I lost sight of you. I thought you had drowned. All that was in my head was that I would never see you again. It was all I could do with all my strength to get back to the beach. I crawled through the surf, my lungs half-full of water, and when I looked up you were there—as miraculous as a mermaid. I would have given my life to see you safe—and you were safe.
    Leo sat on the edge of the bed, taking off his socks. He knelt across MiMi’s sleeping body. Wake up, wake up, wake up, MiMi, wake up.
    —
    MiMi opened her eyes. Leo?
    Leo was pulling his shirt over his head. MiMi lifted her hand and touched his chest. He grabbed her hand like he was steadying himself from falling.
    “Too hard,” said MiMi, but Leo held her harder. He bent low over her, sliding his body flat, his other hand on her throat.
    For a second she thought it was a game and then she knew it was not.
    “LEO!”
    “Did you sleep with him before the show or did you have a quickie when you came back and helped him pack?”
    “Leo,