‘And Alan?’ I asked him on one of his early visits.
‘He won’t speak,’ replied Claud. ‘Not to anyone. Not a single word.’
The thought of Alan – who for as long as I’d known him, had never been able to stop himself speaking – retreating into silence, was somehow terrifying. I imagined his mind, like a great fish, thrashing just under the quiet surface.
As the prospect of the trial became more concrete I felt increasingly vulnerable and exposed. One day I was photographed unawares walking to the shops and the photograph was widely published: ‘The Memory Woman.’ There were legal constraints about what specifically could be said of me but that didn’t stop medical correspondents writing about recovered memory in the newspapers, columnists talking about the supposed issues involved and about families and the pressures on a famous writer as he grows old. I had wandered into a zoo and couldn’t get out.
Frantic efforts were made to persuade Alan to accept a lawyer but he refused legal representation of any kind. He insisted that he would plead guilty and would make no defence and allow no defence to be made on his behalf. There was some nervousness that this might be a perverse trick and that he might suddenly plead not guilty at the last minute. So I had two interviews in small chambers off Fleet Street in which a formally dressed young man and woman questioned me closely with particular attention to the means by which I had found the diaries and details of my sessions with Alex Dermot-Brown. Almost everything I said provoked whispers and serious expressions.
‘Is there a problem?’ I asked.
‘Admissibility,’ the young man said, ‘but that’s our problem, not yours.’
Claud behaved as if he could, by sheer willpower, make things ‘all right’ (‘It will be all right’ was a repeated phrase, mechanically hopeful). He was the only person still seeing all the brothers, and talking to Jerome and Robert, playing squash with Paul, maintaining the fiction that there was still this glorious entity made up of the Cranes and the Martellos. He went to see Dad several times, and I think that they managed to talk together in a way they’d never done while we were still together. Claud even visited Peggy, whom he had never really got on with, and answered her questions. ‘Just because she and Paul are divorced, it doesn’t mean that she should be excluded. After all, she knows Alan far better than Erica does.’
I wondered what he did when he got home to his small tidy flat, how he managed the times he didn’t have tasks to perform. I wondered if there was anyone he talked to about himself. I could picture him grilling a chop, pouring out a single glass of red wine, eating his modest meal in front of the nine o’clock news. Then he’d go round the small flat straightening cushions, drawing curtains, making sure that the door was properly locked and that his clothes were ready for the morning, and that the alarm on his clock was set for radio. He would lie in the centre of his bed waiting for sleep, and I was sure that then the images of recent horror would play, over and over, and he would accommodate them. For all Claud’s fastidiousness, his prudence, his love of habit and his attention to detail, he’s a brave man: stoical, I suppose.
One evening, I invited him for a meal at my house. It was the first time since we’d parted that I’d cooked for him – except that mushroom dinner. I planned the meal nervously: it mustn’t be too special, as if this were a date, but it mustn’t be completely casual, as if we were still man and wife. In the end I decided on a simple chicken, with garlic bread and salad, followed by a couple of good cheeses, and fruit. Forty-five minutes before he was due to arrive, I sliced two large red peppers into strips, and fried them with garlic. When they cooled down, I would add balsamic vinegar and a drained tin of tomatoes. I spiked the chicken with rosemary and put it in the oven; men I washed the lettuce and tore it into a salad bowl, with cucumber, fennel, avocado. I wondered briefly whether to change out of my office clothes, but in the end stayed as I was – though I put mascara on my lashes and dabbed rose water behind my ears.
It’s satisfying watching Claud eat. He is methodical, putting a little bit of everything onto his fork, then chewing it well and washing it down with a sip of rich chardonnay. I get the same feeling from seeing him eat that I used to have when as a child I watched Dad shaving in the morning. Would Claud and I ever get back together? I wondered, as I watched his thin wrists and his clever long fingers and his air of calm concentration. This evening, it didn’t seem so unlikely, although even as that thought flickered through my mind I felt defeated. When he was finished, he put his knife and fork neatly together, wiped his clean mouth with the corner of his napkin, and smiled at me.
‘Who is Caspar?’
The question took me by surprise.
‘A friend.’
‘Just a friend?’
‘I don’t want to discuss it.’
‘At least tell me if it is serious.’
‘There’s no “it”. I haven’t seen Caspar for weeks. All right?’
‘Don’t get ratty with me, Janey.’
‘Don’t call me Janey.’
He cut himself two wedges of cheese, and took a couple of cheese biscuits from the tin.
‘Don’t you think I have a right to know?’
‘No, I don’t.’
This was better – my feeling about the inevitability of our marriage was dissipating; I wished that the evening was over now. I wanted to be drinking tea in bed, with a thriller.
Claud balanced some goat’s cheese on a water biscuit and popped it into his mouth. He chewed several times.
‘The thing is, I still feel married to you,’ he said quite calmly. ‘I still feel you’re my wife, that I’m your husband.’
‘Well, you…’
‘Let me finish.’ He didn’t seem to notice that now was not the time; that any possibilities had already dribbled away from the evening. ‘I’ve felt that more strongly since Dad confessed. We’ve been through terrible times, the worst times it’s possible to go through, and we’ve helped each other. I have helped you, haven’t I?’ I nodded, mute. ‘I won’t lie to you: one of the reasons I have pulled through this – this horror – is the hope that it might bring us back together. Oh look, we’re middle-aged now, Jane; we should be kind to each other, not pull away. We belong together; us and the boys.’ I stiffened when he mentioned the boys – that was playing dirty, using them. He didn’t notice my withdrawal. ‘We should be a family. Don’t you feel that too?’
But I had no chance to reply. He stood up, walked round the table and took my face in his hands; he didn’t seem excited or upset, just very determined, as if he felt that he’d managed to work everything else out and now he was going to get this settled as well. He was too near me, out of focus, and I could smell his wine-and-garlic breath. I pushed him away.
‘No, please Claud. It won’t work.’ I was shaking. ‘It’s my fault; it’s true that we’ve been closer recently, and been kind to each other. And then I invited you over here, and of course you thought…’
‘Stop. Don’t say a word more.’ Two hectic spots had appeared on his pale face. He grabbed his overcoat. ‘Not a word. Not now. Just think about it, will you? I didn’t mean to rush things like that. I didn’t want to alarm you.’ As if I was a shy animal, who needed coaxing. He stood for a moment in the doorway. ‘Goodbye.’ He hesitated. ‘Darling.’
I had felt no desire, I thought, as I cleared away the plates, wrapped the cheeses in their waxy papers. None at all. Instead, I’d felt a kind of dreary panic: I couldn’t just go back to my old life, as if I’d suffered a mid-life crisis and then recovered equilibrium. Claud had called us middle-aged and of course it was true. But I didn’t feel it.