That evening, Annabelle arrived back home at just after eight o’clock. She had left Keith a message on the answerphone explaining that the agency had asked her to attend the dress rehearsal of a play that she had read and recommended, and which was opening in Watford later in the week. She had let him know that there was food in the fridge and she would see him in the early evening. He was sitting at the kitchen table reading the review section of the paper, and he looked up at her as she took off her coat and draped it over the back of a chair. He noticed that small threads of silver were now embroidered into her bob of brown hair, and he anticipated that at some point they would have to sit down for the ‘to go grey or not to go grey’ discussion.
‘You look knackered,’ he said. He put down the paper and stood up. ‘Shall I get you a coffee?’
‘That would be great.’ Annabelle didn’t meet his eyes as she pulled out a wooden kitchen chair and sat down at the table.
‘How was the play? Presumably you did the right thing recommending it?’
‘It was all right. Not bad at all. I think it will come into town.’
‘Which masterpiece was it?’ He opened the cupboard which held the various jars of coffee and boxes of tea. ‘What do you want, instant?’
Annabelle nodded. ‘Thanks.’
‘Well, what play was it?’
‘Look Keith, I didn’t go to a play.’
He spooned the granules into a cup and focused his full attention on the task at hand. The water in the kettle started to make a slow, steamy gurgle, and as the mist began to rise the light from the halogen fixtures passed through the vaporous cloud and created a strangely ethereal pattern on the granite counter top.
‘I went to see my father.’
He turned to look at her. ‘I see. Why did you lie to me?’
‘I don’t know. I think I was just a bit scared.’
‘Of me?’
‘I don’t know, Keith. I didn’t want to hurt you, but I shouldn’t have done it.’
‘You shouldn’t have lied, or you shouldn’t have gone to see your father? Which is it?’
‘I don’t know, I’m confused. Both, I suppose.’
‘So how long has this been going on?’
‘How long has what been going on?’
‘Don’t play games with me, Annabelle. How long have you been saying you’re having lunch with your mother, but secretly traipsing off down there?’
‘Look Keith, I have been having lunch with my mother. This is the first time I’ve been down there since university. Jesus, I’ve not seen Dad since he took us out for that awful meal just before graduation.’ He pushed the cup, with the granules still in it, away from him so that it slid some distance along the counter. ‘Keith, don’t you believe me?’
‘You’ve lied to me once already, what’s to stop you lying again?’
‘Come on, you can’t be serious, Keith. I’m not a liar. Look at this situation, I can’t even keep it up for a few hours.’
He picked up his jacket from the back of the kitchen chair that he had just vacated.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Out. I need to clear my head.’
‘Look, I know you’re upset and I don’t blame you, but I won’t be going back again. Not ever, if I have my way.’ He moved past her and walked towards the door. ‘Keith?’
‘Annabelle, that doesn’t help. I wish it did, but right now it doesn’t, okay.’
He slammed the front door as he left, rattling the letterbox. Annabelle listened to the exhausted splutter of the boiling kettle as the switch eventually tripped off, and she lowered her head and closed her tired eyes as the kitchen fell silent.
On the train journey to Wiltshire few words were exchanged between mother and daughter. Annabelle was relieved when her mother finally stopped sobbing, but as they left London behind, and accelerated out into the countryside, she had to fight hard to keep her memories of this journey from overwhelming her. She smiled to herself as she recalled schoolgirl Saturday outings spent browsing the trendy, but overpriced, shops along the King’s Road, followed by clandestine meetings with boys in Chelsea pubs, before hurriedly dashing to the tube so that they could get to Paddington and catch the eight o’clock train back home. It had all been very innocent, even the time she went off with an Italian boy and they sat together on the sofa in his parents’ London flat and listened to Duran Duran while he tried, and failed, to roll them both a joint. In the end they settled for a menthol cigarette, and later in the day, when she met Gemma and Lisa at the train station, they didn’t believe her when she said that nothing had happened. In fact, nothing happened until she went off to university and introduced herself to Richard Coombs at the university drama group’s stall at the freshers’ fair, and he asked her if she’d ever written any sketches. She lied and said ‘yes, of course’, and three days later she trekked up Crowndale Road to his digs and the pair of them sat on the floor while she read out a spectacularly unfunny piece about Chaucer manning the gates of heaven and choosing not to admit various people from The Canterbury Tales. Richard Coombs was a third-year, and well known in university circles as somebody who was probably going to end up at the BBC. Apparently there were rumours that he had already been approached by a script editor from Birmingham’s Pebble Mill studios. When he laughed at her unfunny jokes she felt grateful, but as she continued to read, and self-consciously switch voices, she could feel herself turning crimson. Then she felt his hand on her leg and she heard him say ‘put down the script,’ which she did. She raised her arms above her head so that he could peel off her jumper, and then she lay back on the scatter cushions and closed her eyes. It was over in minutes, and he hurriedly asked her if she would like to use the bathroom first. ‘No,’ she said, ‘you can go ahead.’ Once she heard the door close she sat up and was relieved to see that there was only a small trace of blood on the inside of one thigh, and it was possible that he might not have even noticed. It had hurt, but at least it was over, and she already knew that it was unlikely that Richard Coombs would ever contact her again. All she had to do now was negotiate the awkward conversation about her sketch, and then endure his clumsy request for the phone number of her hall of residence, and that would be it. In fact, that was it with boys and sex, until the end of the academic year when she found herself sitting in the next seat but one to an awkward-looking boy at a semi-professional production of Sweet Bird of Youth.