Free Close Relations by Deborah Moggach Page A

her empty flat. ‘
She’s gone out for the evening . . . the boys are staying with friends, I could come over now . . . are you there, Pru? . . . oh my darling
. . .’
    On either side of her the dinner guests chattered. They were talking about how often their cars had been broken into – a favoured topic in Camberwell.
    â€˜. . . we take the radio out, of course, but they still smash the window . . .’
    â€˜. . . last time they took all the tapes except
Queen: The Classic Collection
. They left it on the roof.’
    â€˜How embarrassing! So now your neighbours know you like Queen.’
    â€˜I don’t. It belonged to the au pair.’
    Suddenly Prudence saw Stephen so vividly it took away her breath. He had got no reply. He had remembered she was going out to dinner, so he had driven to her flat. At this very moment he was letting himself in with his key . . . he was getting into bed, waiting to surprise her . . .
    As soon as she could politely do so, after the first round of coffee, Prudence said her goodbyes and left. She drove home fast. She jumped the lights; she took a left corner so tightly that she narrowly missed a cyclist. She speeded across Clapham Common and down her road, jamming on her brakes at each hump.
    Her flat was dark. There was a smell in the kitchen; she had forgotten to put out the rubbish.
    It was then that she could bear it no longer. She got back into her car and drove to Dulwich. By the time she arrived at the end of his road it was half past one.
    She switched off the engine and sat there. So this was where he lived. Her stupid heart thumped. It was a street of large, red-brick houses with front drives. They were obscured by trees. The street lamps illuminated the branches; they illuminated the pavement upon which he had walked for the past seven years. It was the strangest sensation to look at a road that was so familiar to him and sickeningly, unknowably familiar to her.
    She turned the car round and drove through the neighbouring streets, acquainting herself with them. She drove past a parade of shops – a Thresher, for his whisky; a place called Animal Crackers where his sons no doubt bought food for their gerbils. She knew about the gerbils. She felt like a thief, crawling at walking pace through the streets. She felt she was betraying him by spying on his life; from now onwards she would have a secret from him. It struck her as unfair:
he
didn’t have to spy on her, he didn’t have to feel like a criminal.
    Finally she plucked up courage to return to Agincourt Road. She drove past 36 and stopped. The hall light illuminated the number. It was like the other houses – a comfortable,Edwardian, family home. The downstairs windows were dark. Upstairs, however, a light glowed behind a blind. This must be their bedroom – the master bedroom. The next window was plastered with what looked like football stickers. This must be Dirk’s or Pieter’s room. In the driveway two cars were parked – his company car and a battered 2CV that no doubt belonged to his wife.
    Oddly enough, Prudence felt nothing. Now she was here at last, parked outside the place she had imagined so painfully, she felt blank. Thinking about it all these months had sucked the flavour from it. All she felt was that she shouldn’t be here; it was nothing to do with her. It had no connection with the Stephen she knew. The only shock was seeing his Ford Granada parked outside.
    She drove home. It was only when she slotted in the Brahms that the tears came.
    â€˜They can’t close it down!’ said Louise. ‘The village will die. It’s more than a shop. It’s where everybody meets. Old ladies who can’t go anywhere else.’
    â€˜Market forces, my dear,’ said Robert.
    â€˜Don’t market forces me! It’s all right for you, you’re hardly here. He can’t afford to buy the