LITMIR.BIZ

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create some space for herself, an hour or so without commitments.

      Very often, as tonight, that involved running herself a very hot bath, pouring herself a large glass of red wine and digging out some not-too-demanding book or magazine in which she could briefly lose herself. And almost equally often, again as tonight, as soon as she lowered herself into the scalding, scented water, she heard the insistent sound of the mobile from the next room.

      She closed her eyes as the ringtone sounded once more. Tonight, of all nights, Liam was the last person she wanted to speak to. She wanted to cut herself off, put the real world on hold. Forget what she was doing, what she was involved in.

      What she had done to Jake.

      She kept telling herself that Jake had known exactly what risks he was taking. And that, last night, she’d done what she could. If she’d tried to do more, she’d be dead herself.

      Even so, as she’d told Salter, it didn’t feel good. Just at the moment, it felt fucking awful. It wasn’t even that she was overwhelmed with grief. She kept expecting that it would hit her – the real emotion, the full sense of loss. But it hadn’t, not really. She felt horror at what must have happened to Jake. She felt fury at those who had done it, and even more, at those who had paid for it to be done. She felt anxiety about her own possible exposure.

      But there was a numbness, a dead spot, at the heart of her response. When it came to Jake himself, when it came to the simple fact that Jake was gone, she felt – what? Sorrow. Regret. Loss. But nothing like the depth or strength of emotion she’d expected.

      She knew all the emotional clichés. She could envisage exactly what Winsor or the counsellors back at the Agency would say if she were ever in a position to share her feelings. That she was in shock. That she hadn’t yet accepted the reality of Jake’s death. That she had to work through all the fucking stages of grieving. And maybe that was all true. But, for the moment, it didn’t feel that way. It felt like Jake had been a good friend – good company, a good laugh, pretty good in bed – and that now he was gone. The world hadn’t ended. But Jake had left town, and he wouldn’t be coming back.

      Christ, she didn’t know what she felt. When she’d embarked on the affair, she knew she was putting both of them at risk. It had been a few months of madness. She’d have ended it soon, whatever happened. It had been a fling – fun, dangerous, exhilarating, doomed. Why should she be surprised that, in the end, such turbulent waters turned out to run shallow?

      Beyond the door, the ringtone trilled on. Finally losing patience, she skimmed her magazine across the bathroom floor so that it crashed like a wounded bird against the white-tiled wall. Cursing Liam, she dragged herself out of the water and reached for a towel. Still naked, trying to dry her body as she hurried out of the bathroom into the living room, she picked up the phone. Inevitably, just as she touched it, it fell silent.

      She threw the towel around her shoulders and looked at the display. Two missed calls. The first number, sure enough, was Liam’s. The second, though, wasn’t the voicemail service she’d expected, but another mobile number. The number wasn’t one she recognized. If it was important, she thought, the caller would leave a message. Most likely, it would be a wrong number or a cold call. In any case, her instinct now was to let others do the running. If someone had a job, she could be found.

      She was still holding the phone when it rang again. Liam’s number. She thumbed on the phone and spoke before he could. ‘I’ve told you not to use this number.’

      ‘And a good evening to you,’ Liam said. ‘You’re answering now, are you?’

      ‘Yes, and I shouldn’t be. I’ll call you back.’

      Before he could object, she disconnected and fumbled in her handbag for the other mobile. She ought to stop and put on some clothes, she thought. The bedroom was warm enough, but she preferred not to be at any disadvantage when talking to Liam. But if she delayed he’d just call back again on the original line.

      It took her a moment to switch on the phone and dial Liam’s number. She expected him to be irritated, but he sounded only resigned.

      ‘On the right phone now, then?’ he asked. ‘Important to get these things straight.’

      She paused, mentally counting to ten. ‘It’s not a game, Liam. I don’t do these things for fun.’

      ‘You can say that again,’ he said. ‘Though Christ knows why else you do them.’

      ‘To make a bloody living, Liam,’ she said patiently. Almost immediately, she regretted the words.

      ‘Because I don’t, you mean?’

      ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Liam . . .’

      ‘How much have I made this month? Sold two pictures. Hundred quid each. Not bad. Just remind me how much the mortgage is again?’

      ‘That’s not the point. You know I’ve always been happy to support your painting. You’ve got real talent . . .’

      ‘Maybe. Maybe not. And what happens when I can’t paint?’

      This was a topic she always tried to steer away from. It was unproductive, pointless. And the last thing she needed today. ‘Don’t be so bloody melodramatic, Liam.’

      ‘I’m not being melodramatic. I’m being realistic. It’s a degenerative disease. I’m going to degenerate. Maybe later, maybe sooner. But eventually.’

      And in the meantime you can wallow in the prospect, she thought, though she knew how unfair she was being. They were very different people. Her instinct was to avoid trouble, not face it till she was compelled to. Liam’s was to embrace it head-on. But she knew that he was pragmatic, not indulgent. And this was his trouble, not hers.

      ‘You don’t know that,’ she responded feebly. ‘You can’t know that. And, anyway, eventually could mean decades . . .’

      ‘Yeah, thanks for that,’ he said. ‘I feel much better now.’

      ‘Oh, Jesus, Liam . . .’ She’d lost it, she knew that. It was stupid even to be having this conversation. She took a breath and tried to start again. ‘Anyway, how’ve you been?’

      There was a hesitation which made her wonder what he wasn’t saying. ‘OK. Not so bad.’

      ‘Are you all right?’ she pushed him.

      She could almost hear him mulling over his reply, wondering whether to make another semi-joking bid for martyrdom. ‘Yeah, I’m all right. I’m fine. Really.’

      ‘Have you been back to the doctor?’

      ‘Not yet. I will.’ He was beginning to sound tetchy.

      ‘Liam, is it getting worse?’

      ‘Christ, Marie, how do I know? No, it’s not, not obviously. But it’s never been bloody obvious, has it? Not yet.’ For a moment, she thought he’d ended the call. ‘I don’t know,’ he said finally. ‘I imagine all kinds of things. But that’s probably all it is. There’s no way of knowing till it happens.’

      ‘Go back to the doctor,’ she said. ‘See what she says.’

      ‘You know what she’ll say. Nothing. What can she say?’

      It was true. They’d had the diagnosis, and that was unequivocal. Multiple sclerosis. He’d had the scan. They’d been shown the images, the lesions in his brain. Had it all carefully explained. There was no doubt. The only question was how far the disease had progressed. Was it still in the remitting stage, where the symptoms could still come and go? Or was it in the progressive phase, where the likelihood was an inexorable, if possibly slow, decline? The distinction, the neurologist had told them, was not always clear-cut, and Liam’s condition seemed to be on the cusp. That was what she’d said, but Marie had suspected that her eyes, professionally expressionless, had intimated a different story.

      ‘She’ll give you a view. About whether it’s getting worse.’

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