Chapters (40)
- Cover
- About the Author
- PENGUIN BOOKS
- Dedication
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- THE BEGINNING
Insomnia casts a harsh light. That evening she had finally admitted to herself, as she watched Adrian in the tv play, that she no longer believed he would ever succeed as an actor and that she’d probably stopped believing it a long time ago. His face, which in person was vivid and sensual, had seemed oddly vague and unmemorable on the tv screen, like a photograph that has been overdeveloped. She saw with surprise what she hadn’t properly noticed before, that his hairline was receding and his waistline thickening, his cheeks slightly jowly. She had twisted round to watch him as he watched himself. He had dropped the self-mocking grin of the early evening and his expression was solemnly attentive. She knew, with an electric jolt of pity, that he was pleased with the self that he saw; his lips half-mouthed the lines that his image on the screen spoke and he gave a tiny, sly smile. Her heart contracted. She had put out a hand to squeeze his arm, but he’d not looked up. He had no idea.
She felt hollowed-out with fatigue, panic and love. She couldn’t believe she would ever feel desire for him, or anyone, ever again. But the trick, at this time of night, was not to think about it.
Irene had fallen asleep on the sofa and woken up with a start, chilly and stiff, just before six. For a few moments, she didn’t know where she was. Indeed, she had the disconcerting sensation that she didn’t even know who she was either, and that her skull contained an ocean of inchoate feelings and rolling, ceaseless memories that could belong to anyone. She lay quite still, her fingers on the rough fabric of the cushion, and waited for things to resolve and return to her. Her eyes adjusted to the gloom and she made out the armchairs, the table, the stairs dimly lit by the light from the landing upstairs. She was able to imagine what she could not see: the rug beneath her, with the threadbare patch under the table; the zigzag pattern on the cushions. She sat up, rubbed her eyes and stood up.
She had just climbed into a bath slippery with bath oil, when Agnes woke and marched into the bathroom, her feet stomping heavily on the tiles, her eyes blinking under her scraggy nest of pale hair.
‘Is it morning now?’ she asked.
‘Just about.’