‘Look, some novels take a long time to write,’ you said, getting back to the original question. ‘When it’s ready, it will be ready. Until then I don’t have a lot more to say on the subject other than I hope to publish it within the next…’ You paused for a moment and stared up towards the ceiling. ‘Within the next two years.’
I turned to look at you and tried to keep the surprise off my face. But I was delighted that you were thinking in these terms at last. Perhaps Norwich, I decided, was having a positive effect on both of us.
There were a few more questions and then we all retired for a drink to the grad bar, where you ordered pizzas for the students and made sure to spend a little time with each group, as if you were doing them a tremendous favour by granting them your wisdom.
‘Have you read any of it?’ asked Nicholas, my crush, coming over to where I stood by the window and handing me a glass of white wine.
‘Any of what?’ I asked.
‘Your husband’s new novel.’
I shook my head and took a moment to appreciate his good looks. He was about eight years younger than me – twenty-three – with short dark hair that looked impossibly clean and a boyish face. I imagined that when he was a child he would have been a Just William sort, always getting into mischief but confident that no one could possibly stay angry with him for very long.
‘No,’ I said, deciding not to say that I had only learned of the existence of a new novel at the same time as the rest of them had. ‘No, he doesn’t let me read anything while he’s working on it.’
‘Does he think you’re going to steal it too?’
I laughed and shook my head. ‘I doubt it,’ I said, feeling that I had to make up for my unfaithful thoughts by defending you. ‘Although that’s not such a bad idea. He’s a much better writer than I am.’
‘Do you really think that?’ he asked.
‘Yes, of course,’ I said, and I think I did believe it at the time. But maybe that was just because you’d already been published when we met and so I’d looked up to you ever since. ‘Why, don’t you?’
‘No, not at all,’ said Nicholas, looking me directly in the eye. ‘Quite honestly, I think you’re in a different league. Or you will be someday.’
Despite the tension that seemed to be developing between us during those weeks, my work, at least, was going well. I was getting closer to the end of a draft of my novel and felt sure that I’d have something presentable by late spring. The occasional email from my agent and editor kept my spirits up, although I still refused to tell them anything of the story, preferring for them to respond to it in its finished state rather than having any preconceptions about it. They seemed content with this and my days were filled with teaching, reading and writing. I could get used to this, I thought, wondering whether a more permanent position might open up at the university soon that would allow me to stay on for a few more years. I liked the idea of writing a third novel, a much shorter one, in an intense period of creativity.
UEA was holding its autumn literary festival during November, a series of curated interviews in one of the theatres on a Tuesday night, and although you generally avoided such events you suggested that we go together to hear Leona Alwin be interviewed by the novelist Henry Sutton. A few years earlier, Leona had been sent a proof copy of Fear and had been kind enough to read it, offering a line of support that was used on the jacket, something that had impressed you, for you’d always been an admirer of her books.
In the late afternoon, I came home to change and, as I made my way up the staircase to our flat, the handrail shook in my hand and I stumbled, tripping forwards, preventing an injury only by throwing my hands out to cushion my fall.
‘Jesus Christ,’ I muttered as I stood up and, when I opened the front door, you emerged from the spare room that I used as my study.
‘What was that noise?’ you asked.
‘I fell over,’ I said. ‘I thought you said that you were going to fix that handrail? One of us is going to break something if we’re not careful.’
‘Sorry. I forgot,’ you said, helping me inside while I rubbed my bruised shin. ‘Are you all right? You didn’t hurt yourself, did you?’
I shook my head as I brushed myself down. ‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘What were you doing in there, anyway?’
‘In where?’
‘In my study?’
‘Your study?’ you asked, raising an eyebrow. I could hear the petulance in my voice and tried to control it as I didn’t want to ruin the evening ahead. But it was my study and we’d always referred to it as such. On the rare occasions when you used your laptop you always did so at the kitchen table.
‘The study, then,’ I said.
‘Nothing,’ you told me, stepping past me into the kitchen and turning on the kettle. ‘I was looking for a pen, that’s all. Anyway, I thought the plan was to meet on campus later?’
‘I needed a shower,’ I said. ‘I’ve been running around like a lunatic all day. I won’t be long and we can walk in together.’
Before going towards the bedroom to undress, however, something made me go into the other room to look around. Glancing towards my desk, I could see a few pens lying there, and when I placed my hand on top of the desktop computer, ignoring the part of my brain that told me to leave well alone, it was warm. My first thought was that you had been using it to access pornography. Had I disturbed you in the act? I moved the mouse to wake it from sleep and checked the search history but there was nothing incriminating there, only searches that I’d made myself over the previous few days. Perhaps it had simply been the sun, I thought. After all, due to the positioning of the house, the study could become oppressively warm during the afternoon.
The reading and interview went very well. Leona Alwin combined erudition with a wonderful sense of humour, talking about her work and the work of others with real insight. You seemed dazzled by her and, as the lights came up, you turned to me with the sort of enthusiasm that I hadn’t seen on your face in a long time.
‘Isn’t she terrific?’ you said, and I nodded in agreement as you took my hand. We walked across the courtyard towards the reception being held in the registry building. Once inside, we sipped champagne, waiting for an opportunity to introduce ourselves to the guest of honour. Out of the blue you reached forward to kiss me and it wasn’t just a peck, it was a real kiss, our lips parted and as your tongue entered my mouth I felt a warmth spreading through my body that reminded me how I had never wanted a man as much as I continued to want you. When you pulled away, you had a mischievous expression on your face. You leaned in and I thought you were going to kiss me again but no, you simply whispered in my ear:
‘Let’s go somewhere and fuck.’
My eyes opened wide in surprise and I put a hand to my mouth to stop myself from laughing aloud, but the idea, the spontaneity of it, aroused me instantly. I looked around at the increasingly busy room. ‘We can’t,’ I said. ‘We’d be caught.’
‘So what?’ you said, taking me by the hand and leading me down a corridor, where we tried a few doors, all of which were locked. I glanced back in case we were being followed but no one was going to leave the main party while Leona was still holding court. We turned the corner into a dead end with just two office doors, one on either side. I tried one and you tried the other but neither would open.
‘Out of luck,’ you said.
I looked at you, grabbed your arm, and smiled.
‘What?’ you asked.
I stepped back into the corner and you raised an eyebrow. I didn’t know what I was doing, it was terribly risky because there were about a hundred people gathered at the end of the hallway, but I knew that I had to have you right then or I would go mad.