affairs and beach stones

V - I

YOU AND I are really very alike, aren't we? I knew it that time on the Isle of Wight, when you challenged Harry's views on child-rearing. All these years I've known it, but I've never really felt it until now, until writing this and realising that neither of us got what we wanted. Such a small thing, really – who does? And yet our ridiculous, blind, naive, brave, romantic longing for it is perhaps what binds us together, for I don't believe either of us has ever truly accepted our defeat. What is it they're always saying now, on TV? You have to move on. Well. Neither one of us managed that.

Each day I look for a sign and am disappointed. The doctor is right: you are worse. I suspected another stroke long before he said it. Your fingers, capable of holding a spoon a few weeks ago, now drop everything. I hold a cup of liquidised pasta to your lips and most comes dribbling out in a gloopy stream. I've bought some of those adult-sized bibs and we're using those quite successfully, but I keep thinking about the nose-feeding Dr Wells mentioned. It sounds like some Victorian torture for wayward women. I can't let that happen to you, Louis.

You sleep most of the afternoons, and in the mornings I arrange your body in an armchair, propped on both sides with pillows to stop you from sliding too far in one direction, and we watch television together. Most of the programmes are about buying and selling things: houses, antiques, food, clothing, holidays. I could play Radio 3, which you'd prefer, but I feel at least the TV brings some life into the room. And sometimes I hope your exasperation will spur you into speech and movement. Perhaps Tomorrow you will hold up your hands and command me to TURN OFF THIS UTTER CLAPTRAP.

If only you would.
I know you can hear me, though. Because when I say the

word Harry, your eyes brighten, even now.
After finding no one at your flat, I went to see Sylvie.

'What's up with you?' she asked, letting me in. I was still in my crumpled dress, my hair unbrushed. A hot smell of unwashed nappies came up to greet me.

'Where's the baby?'

'She's asleep. At last. Up at four, down by seven. What sort of madness is that, eh?' Sylvie stretched her arms upwards and yawned. Then she looked me in the face and said, 'Blimey. You need a cup of tea.'

The offer of tea and Sylvie's sympathetic face were so wonderful that I had to clamp a hand over my mouth to stop myself crying. Sylvie put an arm round me. 'Come on,' she said, 'let's have a sit-down, shall we? I don't need any more wailing this morning.'

She brought two cups through and we sat on her plastic sofa. 'God, this thing's terrible,' she said. 'Like sitting on a park bench.' She took two noisy slurps of tea. 'I drink tea all day now,' she said. 'Just like my bloody mother.'

She seemed to be babbling in order to give me time to compose myself, but I couldn't wait any longer. I had to unburden myself. 'You remember Louis, Harry's—'

''Course I remember.'

'He's been arrested.'

Sylvie's eyebrows shot up to her hairline. 'What?'

'He's been arrested. For – indecency.'

There was a small silence before Sylvie asked, in a hushed voice, 'With men?'

I nodded.
'The dirty ... When?' 'Last night.'

'Christ almighty.' She put her cup down. 'Poor bugger.' She smiled, then put a hand over her mouth. 'Sorry.'

'The thing is,' I said, ignoring her, 'the thing is, I think it might be because of me. I think it's all my fault.' I was breathing very fast, and had trouble getting the words out evenly.