"Spite doesn't suit you, Sarah."
"No," she agreed, "any more than behaving like a brat suits you. You say nothing's changed, but you're wrong, everything's changed. I used to admire you. Now I despise you. I used to find you amusing. Now you bore me. I used to love you. Now I just feel sorry for you." She smiled apologetically. "I also used to think you'd make it. Now I don't. And that's not beause I think any less of your painting, but because I think less of you. You have neither the commitment nor work discipline to be great, Jack, because you always forget that genius is only one per cent inspiration and ninety-nine per cent sheer, bloody graft. I'm a good doctor, not because I have an especial talent for diagnosis, but because I work my fingers to the bone. You're a rotten artist, not because you lack talent, but because you're too damn lazy and too damn snobbish to get down on your hands and knees with the rest of us and earn your reputation."
The dark face split into a sardonic grin. "Hewitt's doing, I suppose? A cosy little supper with Cock Robin and his wife, and then it's dump on Jack. Jesus, he's a easy little toad. He'd be in your bed quicker than inking if sweet little Mary and the kiddiwinkles weren't guarding his door."
"Don't be absurd," she said coldly. "It's your doing entirely. I ceased having any feelings for you whatsoever the day I had to refer Sally Bennedict for an abortion. I draw the line at being asked to approve the murder of your bastards, Jack, particularly by a selfish bitch like Sally Bennedict. She enjoyed the irony of it all, believe me."
He stared at her with something like shock, and she saw that for once she had scored a direct hit. He hadn't known, she thought, which was something in his favour at least. "You should have told me," he said inadequately.
She laughed with genuine amusement. "Why? You weren't my patient, Sally was. And, sure as eggs is eggs, she wasn't going to go to term with your little bundle of joy and lose her chance with the RSC. You can't play Juliet six months pregnant, Jack, which is what she would have been when the run started. Oh, I did my bit, suggested she talk it through with you, suggested she talk it through with a counsellor, but I might have been pissing in the wind for all the good it did. She'd have preferred cancer, I think, to an unwanted pregnancy." Her smile was twisted. "And let's face it, we both knew what your reaction would be. It's the only time I've felt confident that the wretched foetus, were it born, would be rejected by both parties. I passed the buck on to the hospital and they had her in and it out within two weeks."
He swirled his brush aimlessly around the colours on his palette. "Was that the reason for the sudden move down here?"
"Partly. I had a nasty feeling Sally would be the first of many."
"And the other part?"
"I didn't think the wilds of Dorset would appeal to you. I hoped you'd stay in London."
"You should have told me," he said again. "I never was very good at taking hints."
"No."
He put the palette and the brush on a stool and started to wipe his hands with a kitchen towel dipped in turpentine. "So how come the year's grace? Charity? Or malice? Did you think it would be more fun to cast me adrift down here than in London where I'd be assured of a bed?"
"Neither," she said. "Hope. Misplaced, as usual." She glanced at the canvas.
He followed her gaze. "I had tea with her. Nothing more."
"I believe you."
"Why so angry then? I'm not making a scene because you had supper with Robin."
"I'm not angry, Jack. I'm bored. Bored with being the necessary audience that your ridiculous ego requires. I sometimes think that was the real reason you married me, not for security but because you needed somebody else's emotion to stimulate your creativity." She gave a hollow laugh. "In that case you should never have married a doctor. We see too much of it at work to play it all out again at home."
He studied her closely. "That's it then, is it? My marching orders? Pack your bags, Jack, and never darken my door again."
She smiled the Mona Lisa smile that had first bewitched him. He thought he could predict exactly what she was going to say. It's your life, make your own decisions. For Sarah's strength and her weakness was her belief that everyone was as confident and single-minded as she was.
"Yes," she said, "that's it. I made up my mind that if you ever went near Sally again I'd call it quits. I want a divorce."
His eyes narrowed. "If this was about Sally, you'd have given me an ultimatum two weeks ago. I made no secret of where I was going."
"I know," she said wearily, staring at the painting again. "Even your betrayals demand an audience now."
He was gone when she came downstairs the next morning. There was a note on the kitchen table:
Send the divorce papers c/o Keith Smollett. You can find yourself another solicitor. I'll be going for a fifty-fifty split so don't get too attached to the house. I'll clear the studio as soon as I've found somewhere else. If you don't want to see me, then don't change the locks. I'll leave my key behind when I've retrieved my stuff.
Sarah read it through twice then dropped it in the rubbish bin.
Jane Marriott, the receptionist at the Fontwell surgery, looked up as Sarah pushed open the door of the empty waiting-room. Sarah covered Fontwell on Monday afternoons and Friday mornings and, because she was more sympathetic than her male colleagues, her sessions were usually busy ones. "There's a couple of messages for you, dear," said Jane. "I've left them on your desk."
"Thanks." She paused by the desk. "Who's first?"
"Mr. Drew at eight forty-five and then it's hectic until eleven thirty. After that, two home visits, I'm afraid, but I've told them not to expect you before midday."
"Okay."
Jane, a retired teacher in her sixties, eyed Sarah with motherly concern. "No breakfast again, I suppose?"
Sarah smiled. "I haven't eaten breakfast since I left school."
"Hm, well, you look washed out. You work too hard, dear. Doctoring's like any other job. You should learn to pace yourself better."
Sarah put her elbows on the desk and propped her chin on her hands. "Tell me something, Jane. If heaven exists, where exactly is it?" She looked for all the world like one of the eight-year-olds Jane had once taught, puzzled, a little hesitant, but confident that Mrs. Marriott would know the answer.
"Goodness! No one's asked me a question like that since I stopped teaching." She plugged in the kettle and spooned coffee into two cups. "I always told the children it was in the hearts you left behind. The more people there were who loved you, the more hearts would hold your memory. It was a devious way of encouraging them to be nice to each other." She chuckled. "But I thought you were a non-believer, Sarah. Why the sudden interest in the afterlife?"
"I went to Mrs. Gillespie's funeral yesterday. It was depressing. I keep wondering what the point of it all is."
"Oh dear. Eternal truths at eight thirty in the morning." She put a cup of steaming black coffee in front of Sarah. "The point to Mathilda Gillespie's life might not emerge for another five generations. She's part of a line. Who's to say how important that line might be in years to come?"
"That's even more depressing," said Sarah gloomily. "That means you have to have children to give meaning to your life."
"Nonsense. I haven't any children but I don't feel it makes me any less valuable. Our lives are what we make them." She didn't look at Sarah as she spoke, and Sarah had the feeling that the words were just words, without meaning. "Sadly," Jane went on, "Mathilda made very little of hers. She never got over her husband running out on her and it made her bitter. I think she thought people were laughing at her behind her back. Which, of course, a lot of us were," she admitted honestly.