Sarah Hall - The Beautiful Indifference - Stories

Blowy old day, he called to me through the kitchen window, the gravel path crunching under his feet. I waved, and he was gone.

I had been awake for much of the night, lying on my back, staring at the orange glow from the streetlamp. Once I had reached out to touch my husband’s leg, the crisp hair on his belly. I’d moved my hand down nervously, but he was sound asleep. I’d drifted off around five and the alarm had woken me with a start an hour later. The satisfying care with which I thought I would prepare and pin up my hair was absent. I dressed hurriedly and was ready earlier than planned, then felt unfocused, unable to concentrate on anything. I took two paracetamol and made more coffee. Then I cleaned my teeth again and reapplied lipstick. When I looked in the bathroom mirror my appearance seemed hawkish. I realised I had forgotten to apply concealer around my eyes. I took the silver tube out of my make-up bag, dotted it on and blended the cream.

It was not until I was in the car, on the bypass heading out of town, that I started to consider the price of the excursion. Money had not occurred to me at all. I hadn’t inquired how much the procedure would be and no initial fee had been given on the phone. Anthea had not mentioned money either, but of course she had fewer financial concerns. The divorce must have benefited her, or perhaps she had inherited; she owned the town house on Cloet Street, none of her jewellery was costume or paste, and though her weekly column brought in only a moderate salary there was never any talk of being stretched. I could stop at a cash machine and make a withdrawal, but this would create obvious problems later. If The Agency accepted cards I would be able to go into the personal savings that I kept separate from the joint account and used for birthdays. But then there would be a record. I tried to anticipate an appropriate sum, but it was impossible. As much as a year’s worth of dental insurance for the family? A holiday, or a second-hand car? I had no idea what such a service cost. Heat bloomed through me and I felt suddenly nauseous. Aside from everything else, the thought of paying out hundreds of pounds without John’s knowledge made my hands weak.

I lowered the window an inch or two, and took a deep breath. Air buffeted into the car. It was cool and damp, and brought with it the tarry smell of the road. The wind was getting worse, and the brake lights of wagons in the inside lane began to flash on and off. A few heavy raindrops hit the windscreen, and then it began to shower. I slowed down. There was no rush. Volleys of leaves flew across the carriageway and stuck under the wiper blades. I imagined myself caught by a strong gust, losing control of the car, ploughing through the central reservation and across the oncoming lanes. I imagined them finding me, hanging inside a cage of crumpled metal, slack-necked and bleeding over the dark red suit. The family would not know why I had been going into the city, dressed as I was. I thought of John’s face, stricken, his fingers pinching his hips, trying hard not to break down, just as he had at his mother’s funeral before collapsing into grief. And an old memory came too, of the night John and I had met, our first time in an upstairs room full of coats, the music of the party below like another layer between the world and us, his face contorted as he moved, his hand gripping my throat, the rawness, and his breathless incapacitation when it was over. There had been a fierceness in the beginning, before we really knew each other, before we settled into our tender, more considerate patterns. I saw myself in those early years, holding the railings of the headboard, braced, pushing against him, fighting for control of the space we were using. I saw John, pinning my arms down, his vast movements, the sheets pushed outwards and outwards like a ruined form. It was suddenly clear to me that this was madness. What I was doing could not possibly go unmarked. Surely some slip, some twist of fate, would give me away, and it would be impossible to explain. There was no explanation. Even I did not understand what I was doing.

I glanced in the rear-view mirror, indicated, and pulled over onto the hard shoulder. I took my hands off the steering wheel, squeezed them into fists and shook them. Wagons rumbled alongside the car, spraying the windscreen. Tailwinds made the car shudder. I glanced at the dashboard clock. It was nine forty-five. There was still time to think, time to reconsider. I took a familiar CD from the glove box, inserted it into the player and the first track began.

I had been married for fourteen years. There had been no crimes committed on either side. There was so little to regret. But in the end, thinking of our life together made no difference. It was as if love had become scentless, bloodless, it had somehow lost its vitality. I put the car into gear, waited for a gap in the traffic and pulled away.

After navigating the unfamiliar road system, I found a car park near The Agency’s address. The building was on a quiet street. Its façade was unremarkable: three-storey, Edwardian, pale brick, like most of the others in the row. The door was heavy and black and looked newly painted, its lustre like liquorice. There was a brass plaque chased into the masonry with an engraved street number, and above that a bell and an intercom. There was no name, nor the name of any other company listed in the building. It looked like an ordinary corporate town house, containing any number of nondescript offices. I walked away, waited for a few minutes nearby, ridiculously holding my phone to my ear. No one entered or left the building. I walked the length of the street, looking up at the corners of the end buildings, and then I walked back and rang the bell. Almost immediately a buzzer sounded inside and I heard a heavy mechanical click . I pushed open the door, turned to look at the empty street, and quickly entered.

Inside the passageway there was a polished wooden side table and a painted glass lamp. The walls were eggshell-coloured. There was silence until a vehicle drove past on the road outside, its engine muffled. My heart was tapping behind my breastbone. A bitter taste had risen in my mouth and I wished I had not drunk so much coffee before leaving the house. Ahead, at the end of the passageway, stood an elegant staircase with spiralled iron rods and an exquisite curving balustrade. I was about to move and go up it when a door to my right opened. A young dark-haired man in a suit came out. He extended his hand.

Hannah? You found us alright?

I nodded, took his hand, and he placed his other gently on the back of my wrist.

Yes, thank you.

He nodded. Of course. I’m Alistair. We spoke on the phone. Let’s go into the office, shall we? That’s a beautiful suit. Westwood?

He had a soft, burred accent, Scottish, perhaps pared from the Highlands. He held the door for me and I entered the room.

There was a large cast-iron fireplace with decorative tiles and trivets. A vase of white stargazers stood on the mantel. A desk was pushed against the far wall; on top were a slim white laptop and the intercom hub. An armchair and a sofa faced each other across a low table. The carpet was Regency blue, and the room had been wallpapered in a pale green period design. It was a richer interior than the passageway, and smelled newly cleaned. The young man waited for me to catch his eye and then he spoke.

OK. First things first, welcome to The Agency. Thank you for coming.

There was a pause, and then he asked, Would you like a coffee? I shook my head. He brought his hands together in front of his chest, the fingertips steepled. It was a demure gesture, or it was artful; either way he seemed too young for such mannerisms.

Tea? A glass of champagne, perhaps?

He smiled and raised his eyebrows. I could feel a tiny muscle pulsing under my eye.