Free The Editor's Wife by Clare Chambers

untreated dimples and scrapes of past skirmishes.
    It was a cold morning, with a hard frost and a weak January sun, so I had lit a fire early to let the room warm up. I had spent the hours leading up to the appointment tidying the place, excavating the table from beneath cliffs of paperwork and clutter, wiping layers of dust from every horizontal surface, and beating some life back into the depressed cushions of the couch. Since the defection of Patty, my occasional cleaner/lover, standards had slipped somewhat, and it was only the threat of visitors that stirred me to action. It was always worse in winter, with the openfire puffing out clouds of ash and soot, and mud from the farmyard being traipsed in on the soles of my shoes. Anyway, the sitting room looked quite presentable and homely when I’d finished, and not nearly so much like the habitat of a solitary middle-aged man with few friends. While emptying the waste-paper basket (a wedding present from Gerald), I turned up my watch, which I’d thought lost for ever and had already successfully claimed on insurance.
    I could tell I was anxious about the meeting, as I kept walking from sitting room to kitchen, apparently on tidying-related errands, and then forgetting why I was there. My mind was preoccupied with how best to manage the evasions that would soon be necessary. Alex Canning had sounded rather charming on the phone, which was a pity. It would be so much easier if she turned out to be objectionable.
    I watched her ease herself out of the passenger seat, with considerable effort, and I wondered if she was disabled in some way. Then she straightened up and I could see that she was: even her chunky coat and scarf couldn’t disguise the vast bulge of advanced pregnancy. I could see now why Gerald had mentioned this detail. It was hard to overlook.
    I had forgotten the dogs, of course. Richard’s three collies came bounding over to her, barking and threatening to spring, and she stood rooted to the spot holding her leather bag like a shield, until I got my shoes on and ran outside to rescue her.
    â€˜Sorry,’ I said, waving the dogs away and escorting her to the safety of the conservatory. ‘I should have warned you. They don’t bark at me any more, so I forget they’re there.’
    â€˜It’s OK,’ she said, still looking rather white. ‘I was bitten by an Alsatian when I was young and I’ve been a bit nervous with big dogs ever since. It seems to have got worse since I was pregnant.’
    â€˜That’s understandable,’ I said, casting a sympathetic glance at her stomach. Having helped her out of her coat and scarf I showed her into the sitting room, and as her eyes darted about, taking everything in, I had that unsettling experience of seeing my surroundings through a stranger’s eyes and feeling myself evaluated. But all she said was, ‘What a lovely view of the moors,’ before being drawn towards the hearth and holding pink, chapped hands to the flames.
    Meanwhile I was doing some evaluating of my own. She was younger than I had expected – mid-twenties, by the look of it, with muddy-blonde hair which hung in corkscrew curls halfway down her back and quivered when she moved. She wore no make-up, but had the sort of clear creamy skin that looks better unpainted. Her eyes were lively with intelligence: it shone out of them, and it gave me a pang to think I would soon have to lie to her.
    â€˜You’re not from round here originally?’ she was saying.
    â€˜No. Neither are you, by the sound of it.’ She spoke with a South London accent on its best behaviour.
    â€˜No. I’m a southerner by birth. But I’ve been up herefor seven years now, first as a student and now as a lecturer. I couldn’t afford to go back if I wanted to.’
    â€˜Nothing would make me go back,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a house in London – half a house – and I can’t get