Free Falling by Elizabeth Jane Howard

with Marietta, how could she ever discern about anything? How could
she feel that she had ever been, could ever be, enough for one other person?
    That evening had been the beginning of the desert. Anna had been a real friend, letting her talk, weep, rage, struggle with comprehension and acceptance. She had made her stay the night with
her, had supplied a sleeping pill with some whisky and a hot-water bottle. She resolved to cry quietly as the spare room was a mere slip partitioned off from Anna’s room and she did not want
to keep her awake, but in fact she fell into exhausted sleep as soon as her feet got warm. Then there had been the next day all waiting to be got through somehow.
    She had gone back to her flat and found a letter from him, postmarked New York. ‘Darling Daisy, This is the most difficult letter I’ve ever had to write in my life’, it began.
It went on to describe his struggle (agonising, according to him, but unsuccessful) not to fall in love with Marietta; the pain that they had both endured at the thought of hurting her (Marietta
was the sort of person who would naturally feel that), and the conclusion that he had finally reached that there was no other way for them but to be together. There was then a lengthy description
of his feelings for Marietta and hers for him. The letter ended with his pledge of eternal friendship.
    She read the letter four or five times: in spite of the night with Anna, she found it at first impossible to take in. How could
anybody
– how could
he
be writing a letter
like that? The pain of its matter was only equalled by the crassness of its manner. So she should be sorry for him having to write such a difficult letter! He had hardly ever written her letters of
any kind, she realized; only occasional, loving, funny little notes. Perhaps, she thought, as she blinked away the scorching tears, perhaps he had found
them
difficult to write as well. For
what was happening as she read and reread the awkward string of clichés was that not only did they destroy the future, they were annihilating the past. If he could feel as he said he felt
now, he must have been lying about what he felt for her during their two-year
affair
– she would not call it marriage. No, he had wanted her and, unknown and penniless, marriage must
have seemed a good deal. Now he wanted someone else more and he no longer needed either her money or her help. Why should
she
want to know anything about his feelings for Marietta? She read
the letter again, trying to find some other reason in it that accounted for his no longer loving her, but she could find nothing.
    She tried to recognize that he must always – in some sort – have been acting a part (lying) and was choked with bitterness, but when she tried to believe that he had once loved her,
that some of the things he had said, some parts of their time together had been truly felt and meant, grief submerged her utterly and she cried till her throat ached.
    About a month later, his agent rang her. He began by saying how sorry he was ‘about the whole business’, and she heard herself agreeing that it had been – was – a pity.
Then he said that Jason wondered whether she had had his letter. Oh, yes, she had received it. She did not say that she now knew it by heart. Ah. Well, Jason had been a little worried, because he
hadn’t had any reply. She said nothing, waited. He
was
a bit anxious to know how she felt about a divorce. Of course, he could get one anyway in time, but he was rather keen to get on
with it – tidy everything up sort of thing.
    There was nothing about divorce in his letter, she said. She was beginning to feel a cold anger at having to talk about any of it with someone she hardly knew (cold anger made a nice change). He
was talking again, as though he didn’t believe her but was making allowances – extraordinary, Jason had sworn . . .
    ‘If he wants to talk about divorce, he can do it face to face. Tell him that.