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 oâclock, 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.
âTom. Iâm 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?â
We stepped apart and I held her shoulders at armâs length. We looked intently into each otherâs face, perhaps searching for clues about the mental journeys we might each have been on during those two days apart.
âItâs such a relief to see you here,â Sarah said. âI was sure youâd decide not to come. Friday wasnât especially easy, was it?â
âI gave myself a trial run on Saturday and, well, here I am. I wonât outstay my welcome, I promise you.â
âTom, donât be silly. Let me pour us a drink. I always feel like an astronaut re-entering the earthâs atmosphere when I get back here on Sunday.â
âHow was it?â
Sarah looked at me for a moment, then looked away. âI think we might have to work out a way of greeting each other on Sundays that doesnât involve that question. It will be the same answer every time.â
âSorry.â
âNo. I have nothing to hide. Itâs just that . . . I donât 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. Iâm so glad youâre here. I didnât dare hope. Coming home is so much easier when thereâs someone . . . Well, the truth is, this isnât home at all. Thatâs home, and yet I feel like a stranger, an intruder, every time I go there.â
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 wasnât listening. She was distracted, less composed than Iâd seen her previously.
Suddenly she exclaimed: âItâs his anger, his resentment or whatever it is, that gets to me. Hostility. Palpable hostility.â
âNot uncommon, Sarah. Not fair, but not uncommon. Sometimes, the sick canât quite forgive the well, you know.â
âSay more about that.â Sarah leant forward intently, elbows on her knees. I felt a bit like a student being asked to elucidate.
âSome sick people develop a kind of arrogance,â I said, treading carefully. âPerhaps thatâs 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 theyâre being rewarded for being sick. Or perhaps itâs simple envy of those who are well. Coveting their wellness.â
âI hadnât fully thought that out before. It explains so much about Perry. Why else would he have decided to settle into a place heâd 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