showed up. She smiled at him briskly, cast an eye over the plates of food on offer behind glass on the counter, and came over.
âIâll have the vegetarian quiche and lots of that bean and pasta salad,â she said, sitting down. âIâm toying with vegetarianism, not very passionately. And a glass of orange juice. I donât drink at lunchtime these days.â
Steven bustled up, got a tray, and filled plates with this and that. He got orange juice for Margaret and a glass of wine for himself. He didnât see why he shouldnât drink at lunchtime. He wasnât teaching again until three. He distributed things, got rid of the tray, and sat down, grinning tentatively at his former wife. What did one say on these occasions?
âI went to buy you a record,â he began. âThen I remembered Iâd got the stereo. What a stupid thing to forget.â
âIâve gone over to CD anyway,â she. said, beginning efficently on her salad. âIâve only got a few records, but it means I donât use them as aural wallpaper, as we used to.â
âThatâs very wise. I hardly ever play anything now. . . . I thought CD was expensive?â
âIt is rather.â
Silence fell. She wasnât helping him. Butâfairness asserted itselfâwhy should she?
âI thought we should get together,â he said, repressing the awkwardness he felt and putting on what came out as a puppyish ingratiatingness. âToosilly if we canât be friends. No avoiding the fact that weâve spent most of our lives together.â
âNo-o.â
âHave you seen anything of the children recently?â
âNot since summer. I went down to Peterâs, and Susan came to Sleate with the family. But, of course, you know. She went to see you.â
âYes. . . . And how have you been, then? Getting along? Itâs difficult for a single woman, isnât it?â
âYes. But perhaps not so much as it used to be.â A smile wafted briefly over her intelligent middle-aged face. âThere are a lot of us around.â
âAhâyou get together, do you? Supportive groups, and all that? Lunches together?â
âWell, no, actually.â She had raised her eyebrows and now looked at her watch. âNot as far as Iâm concerned. I havenât much time for that sort of thing. Iâm a working woman.â
âAre you?â Steven felt rather foolish. âI hadnât any idea. Where are you working?â
âWest Yorkshire Police HQ, actually. Prosecutions. Iâm just an administrative assistant, but itâs interesting work, as work goes.â She dived into the remains of her salad and quiche, and felt she ought to reciprocate with an interest in himâsomething which in truth she hardly felt. âWhat about you? What are you doing these days?â
âOhâyou know: usual stuff. Iâve got a new project about old age in the contemporary novel.â
âOh, good. Does that mean that your male domination thing has been taken?â
âWell, no, actually. But itâs with Cambridge U.P. at the moment, and Iâm very hopeful. Potentially itâs very topical.â
âWhat about the house? Whatâs it calledâAshdene? Is it satisfactory?â
âOh, very. Real character. . . . Mind you, weâre under threat at the moment.â
âThreat? Some sort of redevelopment, do you mean?â
âNoâan appalling family from the council estate threatening to move in two doors down. The Phelans. Real slum-dwellers, something out of Dickens. Seems theyâve had a big win on the pools. You know me, Iâm no snob, but just to see the front garden of their present house is enough to tell you you wouldnât want them as neighbors. The girlâs on the streets, the eldest boyâs had a set-to with . . . someone I know, and the man!