His eyes are on the floor; he hasn’t even got the guts to look at me when he lies. I despise him for his lack of courage. He’s shuffling his feet awkwardly, but I have no sympathy. He wanted this conversation, so he’s going to get it. He’s still holding the ridiculous bouquet, as if he doesn’t know what to do with it.
‘For God’s sake, put those bloody flowers down somewhere,’ I tell him, angrily. ‘You look like a total idiot.’
He grabs his opportunity to escape and practically runs into the kitchen. He’s filling a vase and haphazardly plonking the battered flowers into it when I follow him a few moments later.
‘How many times?’
Even though he’s facing away from me, I can see his frame crumple as he realises I’m not going to let him off the hook.
‘I’m not exactly sure,’ he mumbles, eventually.
‘How can you not be sure? Is she that unmemorable? It all looked pretty bloody memorable to me. Okay, I’ll ask a different question. How long have you been fucking her?’
‘Do you have to use that word?’
‘I’ll use whatever language I like. Stop trying to duck the issue. How long?’
He carefully places the vase on the kitchen table before answering. ‘Around six months, I suppose.’
‘SIX MONTHS?’ I bellow. ‘YOU ABSOLUTE BASTARD!’ Without thinking, I grab the vase and hurl it at him. He dodges and it hits the wall behind him, smashing into pieces and covering the floor with water and bits of flower. It feels good and I start casting around for other things to throw. My eye lands on the fruit bowl, but he’s too quick for me and, before I’m able to pick it up, he’s crossed the floor and wrapped his arms around me, pinning my own arms at my sides.
‘GET OFF!’ I wriggle furiously, simultaneously trying to escape his grasp and punch him somewhere that will hurt, but he’s too strong for me and maintains his grip until the fight goes out of me. He releases me carefully, making sure he’s positioned between me and the fruit bowl, in case it’s a ploy. I pull out a chair and slump down at the kitchen table and, after a few moments, he does the same.
‘Why?’ I ask, and my voice is now barely more than a whisper.
‘I’m sorry, I really am. I never wanted to hurt you.’
‘But you have, James. You’ve hurt me in the cruellest way. Am I not enough for you? Have you gone off me?’ The tears start to flow now, but I don’t have the energy to get a piece of kitchen towel to mop them up with, so they just roll down my cheeks and drip off my chin.
‘Of course I haven’t gone off you! It’s just that, well…’ He stops, evidently unsure about whether to continue down the path he’d started on.
‘Go on. You were the one who wanted to talk about this, remember?’
‘It was just all the trying-to-get-pregnant stuff, you know? Sex kind of stopped being fun, because it became all about fertility windows and wearing the right underpants to ensure healthy sperm production. I felt like you didn’t see me as a lover any more; I was just your sperm factory, expected to perform on demand.’
‘So this is my fault? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘No! Not at all. But it did kind of take the shine off things a bit, and then when I found out that I was infertile, I felt like less of a man in your eyes because I couldn’t get you pregnant naturally. Sex seemed somehow pointless, because a baby had become its only purpose and I couldn’t provide that.’
‘Does Becky know you’re infertile?’ I’m reminded of the conversation with Rosalind, who obviously hadn’t known until I’d filled her in.
He looks down at the tablecloth. ‘No.’
‘I see. So she makes you feel all manly because she doesn’t know your secret, while your baby-obsessed wife emasculates you for failing to give her what she wants. Is that it?’
‘No! Well, not exactly. Look, you’re twisting this all around.’
‘Why didn’t you talk to me and tell me how you were feeling, instead of just buggering off and shagging the stable girl?’
‘I didn’t know how. I wanted to, but I was scared of upsetting you.’
‘Jesus, James. You make me sound like some fragile wallflower. I’m your wife, for goodness’ sake. You’re supposed to be able to talk to me about anything. If you can’t talk to me, what’s the point of our marriage?’
‘I’m sorry,’ he says again.
‘Why Becky? Was it just that she was available? What does she get out of all of this? Were you planning to leave me for her?’
‘No, I was never planning to leave you!’ he cries suddenly. ‘You’re my wife and I love you.’