Rabih stares at her, surprised by the end of her speech.
“Policing? Really?” he asks. “That’s an odd choice of word.”
“You used it first.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did, in the bedroom: you said everything here was sensible and policed.”
“I’m sure I didn’t.” Rabih pauses. “Have you done anything that I ought to be policing you about?”
The heartbeat of their relationship, which has been going nonstop since the afternoon in the botanic garden, appears to pause.
“Yes, I’m fucking all the men on the team, every last one of them. I’m glad you finally asked; I thought you never would. At least they know how to be civil towards me.”
“Are you having an affair?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I have lunch with them occasionally.”
“All of them at once?”
“No, Detective Inspector, I prefer one at a time.”
Rabih is slumped at the table, which is covered with the children’s homework. Kirsten paces by the larder, to which is tacked a large picture of the four of them on a memorably enjoyable holiday in Normandy.
“Which ones do you have lunch with?”
“Why does it matter? All right: Ben McGuire, for one, up in Dundee. He’s calm, he likes to go walking, he doesn’t seem to think it’s such a terrible flaw that I’m ‘reasonable.’ Anyway, to get back to the larger point: How can I make it any clearer? Being nice is not boring; it’s an enormous achievement, one that ninety-nine percent of humanity can’t manage from day to day. If ‘nice’ is boring, then I love boring. I want you never again to shout at me in front of the children the way you did yesterday. I don’t like men who shout. There’s nothing charming about it at all. I thought the whole point of you was that you didn’t shout.”
Kirsten gets up and goes to fetch a glass of water.
Ben McGuire. The name rings a bell. She’s mentioned him before. She went to Dundee for the afternoon once. When was that? Three months ago, perhaps? There was some sort of council get-together, she said. How dare this McGuire fellow invite his wife to lunch? Is he entirely out of his mind? And without even asking Rabih’s permission, which he would certainly never have given?
He begins his inquisition at once: “Kirsten, have you done anything with Ben McGuire, or has he otherwise indicated that he would like in some way to do something to—or should I say with—you?”
“Don’t adopt that strange, detached, lawyerly tone with me, Rabih. Do you think I’d be talking like this with you if I had something to hide? Just because somebody finds me attractive, I’m not the narcissistic type who feels immediately forced to strip off. But if someone does actually think I am rather terrific, and if he notices that I’ve had my hair cut or admires what I’m wearing, I don’t hold it against him, either. Surprisingly, I am not a virgin. You’ll find that very few women my age are, these days. It’s probably even time you came to terms with the fact that your mother wasn’t the Madonna she lives on as in your imagination. What do you think she was doing with her evenings when she flew around the world—reading selected passages of the Gideons’ Bible in her hotel room? Whatever it was, I hope for her sake that it was wonderful and that her lovers adored her—and I’m glad she had the decency never to involve you in any of it. Bless her. Except that she gave you, through no fault of her own, some very skewed views about women. Yes, women do in fact have needs of their own, and sometimes—even if they have husbands they love and are good mothers—they would like for someone new and unknown to notice them and want them desperately. Which doesn’t mean they won’t also be the picture of sensible concern every day and think about what kinds of healthy snacks to pack inside their children’s lunch boxes. Sometimes you seem to believe you’re the only one around here who has an inner life. But all of your very subtle feelings are in the end very normal and no sign of genius. This is what marriage is and what we signed up for, both of us, for life, with our eyes open. I intend to be loyal to that, as much as I can, and I hope you will be, too.”
With that, she falls silent. On the counter next to where she’s standing there’s a large pack of flour, brought out from the pantry in anticipation of a cake she’ll make with the children the next day. She stares at it for a moment.
“And as for your complaint that I never do anything crazy . . .” The pack of flour is across the room before he can say a word, striking the wall with such vehemence that it explodes into a white cloud, which takes a surprisingly long time to settle across the dining table and chairs.
“You stupid, hurtful, inadequate man—was that crazy enough for you? Perhaps while you’re cleaning it up you’ll have time to remember how much fun housework can be. And please don’t ever, ever call me boring again.”
She goes back upstairs, and Rabih gets down on his knees with the dustpan and brush. There’s flour everywhere: it takes nearly a whole roll of paper towels, carefully dampened, to get the bulk of it off the table, off the chairs, and out of the crevices in the tiles, and even then he knows that reminders of this event will remain visible for weeks to come. As he works he also recalls, in a way he hasn’t done for a while, that he had good reason to marry this particular woman.
It seems especially painful, therefore, to think that Rabih may have lost her to a fellow surveyor from the Dundee Council—and, what’s worse, just when he has no leg to stand on and no moral authority to exert. Yes, he knows he’s being ridiculous, but the thoughts crowd in nevertheless. How long has the adultery been going on? How many times have they met? Where do they do it? In the car? He’ll have to check it thoroughly in the morning. He feels nauseous. She is by her very nature so secretive and discreet that she could be carrying on a whole second life, he reflects, without his having a clue. He wouldn’t begin to know how to intercept her e-mails or bug her phone. Does she really even belong to a book club? When she said she was visiting her mother last month, was she actually off for a weekend with her lover? What about the “coffee” she sometimes has on a Saturday? There might be a tracker he can slip into her coat. He is at once beyond outraged and entirely terrified. His wife is about to leave him, or else she plans to stay but to treat him coldly and angrily for eternity. He misses their past life so much, when all they knew was (he manages to convince himself) calmness, loyalty, and stability. He wants to be cradled in her arms like an infant and to turn back the clock. He thought they were going to have a quiet evening, and now everything has come to an end.
To be mature is, we’re told, to move beyond possessiveness. Jealousy is for babies. The mature person knows that no one owns anyone. It’s what wise people have taught us since our earliest days: Let Jack play with your fire engine; it won’t stop being yours if he has a turn. Stop throwing yourself on the floor and thumping your small clenched fists on the carpet in rage. Your little sister may be Daddy’s darling. But you’re Daddy’s darling, too. Love isn’t like a cake: if you give love to one person, it doesn’t mean there is less for anyone else. Love just keeps growing every time there’s a new baby in the family.