Free Infidelity by Hugh Mackay Page A

sponge bag fully unpacked for the first time since my arrival in London in early December. Waiting, I suppose, to see what would happen.
    At eight o’clock, the sound of a key in the lock drew me into the living room, where I had turned on one of the table lamps to announce my presence.
    Sarah entered her vestibule looking flushed and distracted. She put her hat on a peg and began taking off her coat before she seemed to register that I was there, standing in the dim light. When she saw me, she paused as if she were momentarily unsure of who I was or how I came to be there. I could almost see her brain switching from one world to the other.
    She let her coat drop to the floor, ran to me and flung her arms around my neck as if I were a long-lost comrade. It was not a romantic moment: there was a touch of desperation about it.
    â€˜Tom. I’m so pleased you decided to come. Are you all right? Are you comfortable? Do you have everything you need? Did you find anything to eat?’
    We stepped apart and I held her shoulders at arm’s length. We looked intently into each other’s face, perhaps searching for clues about the mental journeys we might each have been on during those two days apart.
    â€˜It’s such a relief to see you here,’ Sarah said. ‘I was sure you’d decide not to come. Friday wasn’t especially easy, was it?’
    â€˜I gave myself a trial run on Saturday and, well, here I am. I won’t outstay my welcome, I promise you.’
    â€˜Tom, don’t be silly. Let me pour us a drink. I always feel like an astronaut re-entering the earth’s atmosphere when I get back here on Sunday.’
    â€˜How was it?’
    Sarah looked at me for a moment, then looked away. ‘I think we might have to work out a way of greeting each other on Sundays that doesn’t involve that question. It will be the same answer every time.’
    â€˜Sorry.’
    â€˜No. I have nothing to hide. It’s just that . . . I don’t know what to say, really. I never know what to say. If I just say it was awful, that will sound awful. If I give you a medical report, that will sound heartless. If I describe my feelings about . . . Oh, Tom. I’m so glad you’re here. I didn’t dare hope. Coming home is so much easier when there’s someone . . . Well, the truth is, this isn’t home at all. That’s home, and yet I feel like a stranger, an intruder, every time I go there.’
    Sarah opened a bottle of wine and we sat in the same chairs we had occupied just four nights ago, after her three friends had sung their last note and slipped away.
    I described my weekend, such as it was, but Sarah wasn’t listening. She was distracted, less composed than I’d seen her previously.
    Suddenly she exclaimed: ‘It’s his anger, his resentment or whatever it is, that gets to me. Hostility. Palpable hostility.’
    â€˜Not uncommon, Sarah. Not fair, but not uncommon. Sometimes, the sick can’t quite forgive the well, you know.’
    â€˜Say more about that.’ Sarah leant forward intently, elbows on her knees. I felt a bit like a student being asked to elucidate.
    â€˜Some sick people develop a kind of arrogance,’ I said, treading carefully. ‘Perhaps that’s not the word. Defiance, maybe? Assertiveness? A sense of entitlement? They demand all sorts of things from well people. Compensation, I suppose. Perhaps it starts when parents mollycoddle their sick children, almost as if they’re being rewarded for being sick. Or perhaps it’s simple envy of those who are well. Coveting their wellness.’
    â€˜I hadn’t fully thought that out before. It explains so much about Perry. Why else would he have decided to settle into a place he’d never really occupied before? Somewhere he never even wanted to be except for those fleeting weekend visits. There is something almost arrogant about it. Defiant. Yes, that is a good