Edmond de Goncourt: ‘the duplicity of woman’s soul, of her prodigious gift, her consummate genius for mendacity’. On the death of his beloved housekeeper, Edmond had discovered that she had been stealing his money. What had Tilly stolen from Jomier? His home. His family. Much of his money. And trust. More than trust: confidence in perception. Tilly had never stopped sleeping with Jomier even when, as Jomier later discovered, she was sleeping with Max. She had never pretended to have headaches or stomach aches and only occasionally said that she was not in the mood. She never suggested sex. But she never declined. She complied. Submitted. Acquiesced. Why not? Jomier had assumed that this was the way she was. Jomier had done his best to make sure that she enjoyed it. He had studied the recipes in The Joy of Sex. Now Jomier spends hours, days, months looking back over his diaries, rereading letters, emails, faded faxes, looking for clues that should have told him when Tilly had started sleeping with Max. There are none. There is no entry that notes an expression of dissatisfaction or a change of behaviour, in or out of bed. A genius for mendacity. She should have been a spy. Jomier feels particularly foolish because as a barrister he thought he could judge whether or not a witness was telling the truth. But Tilly was never a witness; nor was she the accused. In the early days of their marriage, Jomier had occasionally complained when she flirted with other men. She had smiled. A Desdemona. His jealousy was absurd.

The self-fulfilling prophecy? Had his jealousy driven her into the arms of Max? Given her the idea? Made her suspect that he was unfaithful? Which he was, once. A pupil at his chambers. Sandra. Twenty-five years old. Flawless teeth, clear eyes, silken skin, glossy hair. Bright. Determined to learn. About the law. About life. A weekend at a country-house hotel – supposedly a seminar on racial awareness for would-be judges – gluttonous dinners, a glossy body, dyspeptic sex, faked affection, alien odours, insomnia; dull walks in national parks and visits to National Trust gardens; more gluttony, more force-fed textbook sex; the drive back to London; silence; insincere farewell kisses; lying joy; never again. Then home. ‘How was it?’ ‘Terrible. Political correctness gone mad . . .’ Deceit. Guilt. Pretence. A role that men play so badly and women so well.

Chapter 2

Chapter 2