I read Beth’s message twice before answering.
Do you want me to call?
The little dots appeared, vanished, then appeared again.
Give me five minutes.
Tom had heard the doorbell. He looked up as I came back into the sitting room.
“Everything all right?”
“Martin was asking about Beth’s things.”
“Did you give them to him?”
“They aren’t his.”
He closed his laptop halfway, which was his way of making a conversation official.
“I didn’t say they were. I just meant she might have sent him.”
“She didn’t.”
My phone rang before he could ask how I knew.
I went into the kitchen and shut the door. Beth’s voice was low but steady.
“He’s back. He says you were a bit unfriendly.”
“I told him to ask you.”
“Yes. That would do it.”
For a moment neither of us spoke. I could hear water running at her end.
“Can you talk?”
“I’m washing my face. Apparently that takes women forever.”
I wanted to ask why she needed an excuse to make a call. Instead, I sat down.
“Are you all right?”
“Tonight, yes.”
It was an answer with edges. I let it stand.
“What would you like me to do if he comes back?”
“What you did. Please don’t tell him what was inside. He’ll turn it into an inventory of everything he’s paid for.”
“The certificates?”
“The courses, the laptop I used, the electricity. There’s always a way.”
I looked at the rota on the kitchen counter. I had placed it beside the fruit bowl so neither of us could claim not to have seen it.
“Has he taken your things before?”
“Moved them. To somewhere more sensible.”
Beth gave a short laugh.
“My portfolio spent six months in the loft. He said I’d put it there. Perhaps I had. I’ve stopped being sure about ordinary things.”
I resisted the urge to tell her what kind of marriage she had. I had met her that evening. Being listened to did not have to come with a diagnosis.
“The box can stay until Monday,” I said. “If that needs to change, just tell me.”
“Could you put it somewhere Poppy won’t get at the photographs?”
“She prefers pictures of animals. Your conference guests should be safe.”
“One of them brought a parrot.”
“Then I can’t promise anything.”
We both laughed, and the conversation became briefly ordinary. She told me which folder held the photographs and which certificate had arrived with her name misspelt. She had made the training company replace it, despite Martin saying nobody would notice. I began to picture her before this evening: arguing with suppliers, solving problems, insisting on the correct letters in her own name.
“Thank you.”
The water stopped.
“And I’m sorry about the book club.”
“You don’t need to be.”
“It wasn’t some secret code. Page thirty-seven. You must have thought we were ridiculous.”
“I thought I’d missed a meeting.”
She laughed properly then, though quietly.
“The woman in the novel goes back to work after years at home. She buys a sandwich and eats it alone on a bench. Vivienne decided it was exactly what I needed to read.”
“Was it?”
“The sandwich sounded nice.”
I smiled into the dark kitchen window.
“But every time I see her, she asks whether I’ve reached that page. Meaning, have I made a decision yet? And I know she means well.”
“You’re allowed to dislike the question.”
“That’s what Priya says.”
There was a sound beyond her door. Her voice changed, becoming brisker.
“I should go.”
“Beth?”
“Yes?”
“You don’t owe me an explanation because I’m keeping a box.”
She said nothing for a moment.
Then, very softly, “Good.”
After she rang off, I checked the cupboard. The box was exactly where I had left it. I pushed the door until the latch caught, feeling faintly absurd.
Tom came into the kitchen carrying two empty mugs.
“Is something going on?”
“She wants to keep her work things somewhere else for a few days.”
“I hope we’re not getting involved in a domestic.”
The phrase irritated me more than his question.
“We’re keeping a box, Tom. We aren’t buying them a divorce.”
He put the mugs beside the sink.
“You barely know her.”
“I barely know him either.”
That stopped him.
Upstairs, Poppy called out in her sleep. We both looked towards the ceiling, then Tom went to her before I moved. A minute later I heard the familiar scrape of her bedside chair.
I was grateful. I was also tired of gratitude being the first thing I felt when we divided an ordinary task.
My phone lit again. Beth had sent a photograph of a page covered in her own handwriting. A list of jobs, contacts and dates. Not a message intended for anyone else.
I’m going to the meeting on Monday, she wrote. Even if I haven’t finished the book.
I typed Good, then deleted it. I didn’t want my approval becoming another thing she needed.
I hope it goes well.
Her answer came a moment later.
First I need to tell him I’ve arranged it.