Night Over Water - Ken Follett [39]
She was going to miss the twins.
Mervyn enjoyed an energetic social life with the city’s leading businessmen and politicians, and for a time Diana enjoyed being his hostess. She had always loved beautiful clothes and she wore them well. But there had to be more to life than that.
For a while she had played the role of the nonconformist of Manchester society—smoking cigars, dressing extravagantly, talking about free love and communism. She had enjoyed shocking the matrons, but Manchester was not a highly conservative place, and Mervyn and his friends were Liberals, so she had not caused much of a stir.
She was discontented, but she wondered whether she had the right. Most women thought her lucky: she had a sober, reliable, generous husband, a lovely home and crowds of friends. She told herself she ought to be happy. But she was not—and then Mark came along.
She heard Mervyn’s car pull up outside. It was such a familiar noise, but tonight it sounded ominous, like the growl of a dangerous beast.
She put the frying pan on the gas stove with a shaking hand.
Mervyn came into the kitchen.
He was breathtakingly handsome. There was gray in his dark hair now, but it only made him look more distinguished. He was tall, and had not got fat like most of his friends. He had no vanity, but Diana made him wear well-cut dark suits and expensive white shirts because she liked him to look as successful as he was.
She was terrified he would see the guilt on her face and demand to know what was the matter.
He kissed her mouth. Full of shame, she kissed him back. Sometimes he would embrace her and press his hand into the cleft of her buttocks, and they would become passionate so that they had to hurry to the bedroom and leave the food to burn; but that did not happen much anymore, and today was no exception, thank God. He kissed her absentmindedly and turned away.
He took off his jacket, waistcoat, tie and collar, and rolled up his sleeves; then he washed his hands and face at the kitchen sink. He had broad shoulders and strong arms.
He had not sensed that anything was wrong. He would not, of course; he did not see her; she was just there, like the kitchen table. She had no need to worry. He would not know anything until she told him.
I won’t tell him yet, she thought.
While the potatoes were frying she buttered the bread and made a pot of tea. She was still shaky, but she hid it. Mervyn read the Manchester Evening News and hardly looked at her.
“I’ve got a bloody troublemaker at the works,” he said as she put the plate in front of him.
I couldn’t care less, Diana thought hysterically. I’ve nothing to do with you anymore.
Then why have I cooked your tea?
“He’s a Londoner, from Battersea, and I think he’s a Communist. Anyway, he’s asking for higher rates for working on the new jig borer. It’s not unreasonable, really, but I’ve priced the job based on the old rates, so he’ll have to put up with it.”
Diana screwed up her nerve and said: “I’ve got something to tell you.” Then she wished fervently that she could take the words back, but it was too late.
“What did you do to your finger?” he said, noticing the little bandage.
This commonplace question deflated her. “Nothing,” she said, slumping into her chair. “I cut it slicing potatoes.” She picked up her knife and fork.
Mervyn ate heartily. “I should be more careful who I take on, but the trouble is, good toolmakers are hard to come by nowadays.”
She was not expected to respond when he talked about his business. If she made a suggestion, he would give her an irritated look, as if she had spoken out of turn. She was there to listen.
While, he talked about the new jig borer and the Battersea Communist, she remembered their wedding day. Her mother had been alive then. They had got married in Manchester, and the reception had been held at the Midland Hotel. Mervyn in morning