He can hear the BBC morning news. Even before he opens his eyes he realises that he must have fallen asleep with the television set on. He knows that in all likelihood he is on the sofa for he has no television in his bedroom. His mouth is dry, and tastes like a discarded ashtray. He tries to licks his lips but he has no saliva. He rubs his eyes and then sits upright. The light bulb in the desk lamp is shining directly in his face. On the coffee table are two empty glasses of wine and an empty bottle lies on its side on the floor. There is no sign of Lesley, and he has only a vague recollection of her leaving the flat. He does, however, remember her asking him if he had any regrets about what had happened between them in the New Forest. He had seen this question coming for some time, but when it arrived he still had no carefully constructed answer with which to defuse the situation. He need not have worried for Lesley didn’t give him an opening to answer. ‘You see,’ she insisted, ‘I’ve never regretted acting along the lines of how I feel. I suppose it’s only when I don’t act that I regret it.’ He remembers looking at her and thinking that of course she has no regrets because she had nothing to lose. He on the other hand has plenty of regrets for he should have been responsible not only to his wife’s feelings and her dignity, but to her life, to her journey, to the fact that he had met her parents, and it was not possible for him to simply pat himself on the back and prioritise being in tune with his feelings over his sense of responsibility. Of course he had regrets about what had happened between them, which is why he eventually blurted it all out to Annabelle, although a part of him still can’t understand why such a brief and inconsequential act of infidelity should have mattered so much to her. Lesley was not a threat to their marriage. It was a mistake, and Annabelle was not being abandoned, and they were not trapped in a sexless marriage. For Christ’s sake, the whole thing meant nothing. Their marriage may not have packed the passion and the lust that it once did, but it wasn’t broke and wasn’t his confession a testament to this? He had no desire to compartmentalise at his wife’s expense, for there were already too many secrets hanging over his life, and so he did the decent thing and he admitted his guilt, but still she jettisoned him. Jesus, it didn’t seem fair. After all, he had embraced the myth that one person was all that he needed, and he had tried to be loyal to the myth, to live by it, and to accept the notion of the myth as the basis of his life, and it had, if truth be told, given him many rewards. But by betraying it just one solitary time, everything had collapsed and this woman wanted to know if he had regrets? Sitting with him in a one-bedroom rented flat on a cheap sofa drinking bad wine, she seriously wanted to know if he had regrets? He remembers drifting into the kitchen and opening another bottle of dodgy Australian Chardonnay, and then avoiding her questions, and physically keeping his distance from her, but the tension of the evening, and endless glasses of wine must have eventually taken a toll for he still has only a hazy memory of her leaving. But leave she did, and if he remembers correctly she again stressed, at least once, that she might be able to talk to Yvette, but by this stage he didn’t give a damn. By the time he poured the final drop of wine from the last bottle, he couldn’t care less about a potential tribunal, or a newspaper scandal, or his being sacked, or the withholding of his pension. He no longer cared about the whole pantomime of his fancy job and the consequences of his so-called inappropriate behaviour. None of it held any interest for him. He remembers looking at a bleary-eyed Lesley, her face twisted with righteous concern, and thinking, let them do with him what they wish. Let them make an example of him, humiliate him, who cares, he was sick of it all. And yes, he did have regrets, especially staring at her podgy face. He regretted going to the conference, he regretted going to the local pub in the forest with her, he regretted the quick fumble, he regretted everything. Was that clear enough?
By nine o’clock he has finished tidying up the flat and he has packed a bag. Outside he can hear a helicopter buzzing overhead like an intoxicated insect, and he imagines that there must be a drug bust on the local council estate, either that or there is an appalling traffic snarl-up at some junction, but what’s new? These days, nobody in London ever gets anywhere on time. The laundry has been done, the bathroom and kitchen have been cleaned, the sofa straightened out, and all his papers and bills neatly filed and arranged. What remains to be organised has been simply pushed into a drawer and out of sight. He is not sure how long he will be gone, but it is important to him that he comes back to a neat place. The sink is full of soapy water, but as he searches for stray items to wash he realises that there is only an odd cup and a single glass left to take care of and then he will be ready. He pulls out the plug and listens to the water spiralling away. An hour ago, as he still lay on the sofa piecing together the night before, Laurie had called and asked if he should come round to see him. He had told his son that he was more than welcome to do so if he wished, and that he shouldn’t feel that he had to ask, but then Laurie confessed that he didn’t really have much to say at present, and he was sorry for all the trouble and worry that he was causing. Maybe they could do something later in the week? He found himself listening to his son’s suggestion, and then saying ‘sure’, like some gum-chewing cowboy from the movies. ‘Sure, Laurie.’ His son seemed relieved, and he promised to call back in a day or two, but he didn’t bother to tell Laurie that he would be gone. He decided that once he knew how long he was likely to be away then he would phone Laurie and set something up. He tears off some sheets of paper towel and begins to wipe out the sink where the suds have gathered. Then, having disposed of the wet paper, he crosses to the fridge and makes sure that the ice-making machine is turned off. He will actually call Laurie once he gets to his father’s house, for there is no reason at all why he should leave things up in the air for a minute longer than is necessary. He will speak to Laurie, and figure out what his son would like to do. At the very least, he owes his son the courtesy of attempting to play the part. He fully understands that Annabelle has probably encouraged Laurie to call him, but unless Laurie wanted to speak with his father then he wouldn’t have picked up the phone. In this sense, Laurie has made the decision by himself. His son called him, and so he will set up something specific with him. During the past three years there have already been too many casual plans made, and too many casual plans broken, and as the grown-up it is his responsibility to change this pattern of behaviour between them.
V
THE SHARP, ACRID smell of the hospital ward alarms him. The noise of the machines that beep with metronomic precision, and the sight of people laid out in various states of helplessness is unsettling, but it is the high stench of cleanliness that truly disturbs him. Suddenly he is desperate for fresh air, but it is too late now. He walks slowly towards the far end of the ward where he can see his father lying prostrate in the cot under the window with his eyes closed, an intravenous drip needled and taped into the underside of his forearm, and his heartbeat, a neon green parabola, blipping away on a small screen. His father is asleep, but his brow remains furrowed, which suggests that this is not a painless slumber. He looks down at the surprisingly wizened face that is lined like a walnut, and he can see that his father seems to have aged a whole decade in the space of a few days. Near the end of the bed there is a plain metal fold-out chair which is set at a watchful angle, and so he sets his bag down to the side of the chair and then sits heavily and stares at the sleeping man. Were his father to open his eyes he is not sure what he might say to him, so he is grateful for this moment of silent contemplation.