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I had not. Perhaps I was unobservant, or insensitive, or complacent. We had not made love as frequently as before but that was hardly unusual. Wasn’t this marriage’s oldest joke? We were meant to be trying for a baby but if we had lost some of our initial zeal for that project, was that really a surprise? And yes, there had been moments where Connie had seemed a little distant, uncommunicative, distracted, times when we shuffled around the kitchen sink together like colleagues on a morning tea break, times when I fell asleep to the sound of her uneven breathing instead of asking what was wrong. But I was working very hard in those days, extremely hard, through the night sometimes in order to complete one project while securing funding for the next, and there were limitless demands on my time and my attention.

Well, she had my attention now. I am not an especially passionate man. Months, years go by without me raising my voice, and I think people sometimes misinterpret this as docility. But when I do lose my composure — well, a fitting analogy would be the difference between kinetic and potential energy, between the flow of a river and a dam that’s about to burst. Good God, the memory of that awful weekend; the shouting and the tears and the punched walls, the awful circular argument. Why had she done it? Was it because she loved him? No, not really. Did she still love me? Yes, of course she did. Then why? Was it because she loved him? No, not really and so on and so on late into the night. The neighbours complained, but not because of the dancing this time. By the second day the shock and rage had dissipated somewhat, and we were staggering from room to room, insensible and incoherent. We left the house and walked along the Regent’s Canal, somewhere new to be unhappy. Why had she done it? Was she bored? No, or only occasionally. Unhappy? No, or only sometimes. She sometimes wanted, she said, to feel younger, wanted something new. Change. Then did she want the marriage to continue? Yes, absolutely yes! Did she still want children? Yes! Children with me? Yes, more than anything. Then why had she …?

By Sunday night we were exhausted. Those two days were like some awful fever and I suppose we hoped, by the end of it, that the danger had passed. Nevertheless I insisted that Connie sleep elsewhere, dispatching her to Fran’s, because wasn’t this the convention? The suitcase, the waiting taxi? I did not want to see or hear from her until she’d made her choice.

But no sooner had the taxi pulled away than I wanted to run after it and wave it down. Because I had a terror that once banished, she might never return.

107. phone call from connie

‘Did I wake you?’

‘A little bit.’

‘I don’t think you can wake someone a little bit, can you?’

‘I mean I was just dozing off. There’s a time difference, you know.’

‘Of one hour, Douglas! I’m sorry, do you want to go back to sleep?’

‘No, no, I want to talk to you.’ I levered myself further up the swampy bed. Eleven o’clock.

‘I know I wasn’t meant to call you, but—’

‘Connie, is there news?’

‘No news. I take it you’ve not found him yet.’

‘No, but I will.’

‘How do you know, Douglas?’

‘I have my methods.’

She sighed. ‘I’m still texting him once a day. Nothing melodramatic. Just “please call, we miss you”.’ There was an artificial precision to her voice that suggested she had been drinking, the vocal equivalent of walking in a straight line for a policeman. ‘I’ve told him we’re both in England. Not a word back, Douglas.’

‘That doesn’t mean he’s not okay. It just means that he’s still punishing me.’

‘Us, Douglas, both of us.’

‘You’ve done nothing wrong. It’s me.’ She did not contradict me. ‘If you do hear anything, don’t tell him I’m here. Ask him where he is but don’t say I’m looking.’

‘I’ve checked his email, his Facebook account too. Not a word.’

‘How can you check those? I thought he kept that private.’

Connie laughed. ‘Please, Douglas. I am his mother.’

‘Where are you now?’ I asked.

‘On the sofa. Trying to read.’

‘Anyone know you’re home?’

‘Only the neighbours. I’m lying low. How’s the hotel?’

‘A little bleak, a little damp. You remember that old fish tank that Albie refused to clean? It smells like that.’ Down the line, I heard her smile. ‘The mattress sort of sucks you in.’

‘What’s that noise?’

‘That’s the hotel boiler. It’s okay, it only happens whenever anyone runs a tap.’

‘Oh, Douglas, come home.’

‘I’m fine, really.’ A brief pause. ‘How’s our stupid dog?’

‘He’s not stupid, he’s complicated. And he’s fine. Happy I’m back.’

‘How’s the weather?’

‘Rainy. How is it in Venice?’

‘Hot. Humid.’

‘It’s funny, I can only ever think of Venice in the winter.’

‘Yes. Me too.’

‘I’m sorry not to be there.’

‘You could fly out?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘I found our spot today. Where I proposed to you. You remember?’

‘It rings a bell.’

‘I didn’t seek it out. It wasn’t a pilgrimage, it was on my route.’

‘That’s fine. I’m sorry I wasn’t there with you.’

‘Yes, we could have laid a wreath.’

‘Douglas—’