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261 pages, Paperback
First published November 1, 2022
"Life, Frances, it's such a brief affair."
It wasn’t an affair, that sordid word. She was not a woman who had betrayed her husband with another man. She would refuse to name it that. It was simple and it was pure, unsullied and unknown, a mystery to such things as moral choice. Its source a place beyond the reach of social artifice and hostility. No one would ever understand it except the two of them. No one but they would ever know it. She felt no remorse. She knew in her heart she had done nothing wrong but had done something beautiful and real.
He was ten and here was his mother lying to him, and he knew his mother was lying to him, and he didn’t know how to sort things out with her. It was no good her excusing herself by saying children don’t understand. Children do understand. Children sense things at once. They understand everything. Children understand truth more clearly than grown-ups. They have highly tuned antennae and resister the smallest changes in the mood of the family. Their thoughts are not cluttered with ambitions. Children fear the death of their parents. They may not know exactly what’s going on, but they know something is going on.
Lying in bed later, wide awake beside Tom, she returned to their conversation and to her memory. If Jargal Bati had said to her that night in the hotel room in Hefei, This is love, isn’t it? she would have replied, Yes, that is what this is. How to tell Tom that? She understood it. She believed it. But how to justify such things to someone else, even to someone you loved, as she loved Tom? There was a limit. That night in Hefei she was not the mother her children knew. They would not have known her. And if she were to bring it all out and lay it before Tom, he would get tangled up in the net of it. They both would. What a mess it would be. A bomb would go off and blow them apart. Blow them to bits. Body parts. The plain truth would become something untrue. Truth was too much. That was the trouble. We can’t have the truth. Who can live with it? The facts are too bitter. We’re better off without it, without them. Things are possible without the truth. With it, nothing would ever hold together for long. Especially not marriage. Once it gets into your head, truth is a carnivore lodged in the brain. It eats its way into everything. How would you ever get it out again once it had made its fatal entry into you? You would be eaten up by it day and night. We live by the myth, not by the truth. Our lovely, private, cosy, reassuring myths. Our hopeless dreams.
The sound of the heavy outer door crashing to behind her echoed through the void of the building. There was a faintly familiar smell of something chill and undisturbed in the air of the wide foyer. From where did she remember this smell? A residue of something from the past that refused to leave the fabric of this place, the ghosts of the once-upon-a-time lunatics refusing to be forgotten. There was no one about. She crossed the foyer and climbed the broad stone stairs to the upper floor. Her runners made a faint squeaky sound in the empty building. In the beginning, when she had worn heels to work, thinking herself then a kind of goddess, emboldened by her sense of her own success, her heels had struck the desolate silence of the old Welsh slate into life, walking sympathetic murmurs, murmurs of disquiet that belonged to an era of long ago. The past. She would put her heels on once she was in her office. Her runners would go into her satchel for later. With runners on her feet no one heard her approaching. It was no wonder they called them sneakers. (p.28)