Authors: Frederic Lindsay
It
was
with
this
smile,
he
asked
her,
'Will
you
tell
her
at
the
same
time
why
you
call
her
husband
by
his
first
name?
"Maitland"
–
you
say
it
so
naturally.
Are
you
going
to
explain
to
her
why
that
is?'
'Are
you?'
Maitland
wondered.
Yes.
Sooner or later, somehow. Had Monty Norman thought he was being clever?
She
had
wanted
to
say
to
him,
‘Wake her up! Let's tell her now who I am and what I mean to Maitland!’
'Haven't
I
the
right
to
be
happy?'
Unexamined,
the
appeal
burst
from
her
and
broke
upon
his
look
of
incomprehension.
Trembling,
she
went
on,
'You
know
I
wouldn't.’
'So
what
happened?'
'That
was
all.
I
went
back
to
my
room.
I
sat
on
the
bed.
After
a
while,
the
outer
door
closed.’
'You
expect
me
to
believe
this?'
She
stared
at
him
in
shock.
One
hand
reached
out
palm
upward,
longing
to
be
held.
Haven't
I the right to be happy?
Her
question
was
a tremor
of
the
air
which
separated
them.
'I
never
pretended
to
you
that
I
wanted
to
change
my
life.’
In
his
bulky
expensive
coat,
he
rested
on
the
edge
of
the
desk
like
a
rock,
heavy
and
solid
with
darkness.
'I
didn't
think
I
had
to
put
it
into
words.
If
I
should
have
done,
then
I'm
sorry.’
For
a
rock,
it
was
a
handsome
apology.
Rock
sins
necessarily
being
sins
of
omission.
'Are
you
being
cruel
to
be
kind,
Maitland?'
she
whispered,
hardly
knowing
what
she
was
saying.
'Is
that
what you
think
you
have
to
do?
My
father
talks
about
being
cruel
to
be
kind.’
'Neither
the
one
nor
the
other,'
he
said,
who
had
been
so
kind
in
the
wordless
sliding
promises
of
his
flesh
in
hers.
'Just
realistic.
You
can't
change
one
kind
of
relationship
into
another,
Sophie,
just
by
wishing.
You
weren't
content
with
what
we
had
–
you
wanted
to
change
things.
Well,
that's
what
you've
done.
You've
made
it
impossible
for
us.’
'Your
wonderful
marriage,'
she
said.
Her
lips
were
numb
as
if
after
a
beating.
'It's
Christmas
Eve.
You
should
be
at
home
hanging
up
stockings
for
the
children.
Only
there
aren't
any.
She
hasn't
given
you
any,
has
she?'
'This
isn't
doing
either
of
us
a
bit
of
good.’
He
turned at
the
door,
one
hand
resting
on
the
handle,
no
more
than
pausing
in
the
act
of
leaving.
'One
thing.
If
you
did
tell
my
wife
we'd
been
to
bed
together
–
if
you
couldn't
stop
yourself
doing
that
–
it
would
distress
her
and
infuriate
me.
But
it
wouldn't
alter
anything.
Be
a
sensible
girl.’
She
sat
at
his
desk
and
touched
the
things
gently
that lay
on
its
surface.
Only
now
did
it
occur
to
her
that
she
should
have
asked
Maitland
if
his
wife
suffered
from
migraine.
Whatever
she
picked
up,
she
was
careful
to
set
down
in
the
same
place.
Nothing
was
disarranged.
If
Lucy
Ure
was
ill,
couldn't
he
see
that
proved
she
was
telling
the
truth?
Except
that
someone
else
might
have
told
her
about
his
wife
being
ill.
Wasn't
that
what
he
would
think?
There
was
an
executive
toy
perhaps
given
to
him
by
some
colleague
as
a
joke,
the
dolphin,
drawn
back
and
released,
rocked
back
and
forward
through
a
hoop.
No
matter
how
far
back
you
took
it
or
how
often
you
tried,
it
would
never
rock
free.
The
door
was
thrown
open.
A
man
stood
there
with
one
hand
up
as
if
ready
for
self-defence.
'God,
it's
you,'
he
said.
'I
didn't
know
who
it
was
when
I
saw
the
light.’
She
recognised
the
security
guard
who
had
told
her
Maitland
would
come.
'Professor
Ure
phoned
from
home
that
he'd
forgotten
to
lock
his
door,'
the
man
said.
'All
these
doors
have
to
be
kept
locked.’
'It's
all
right.’
She
got
up
from
behind
the
desk.
'I
haven't
touched
anything.’
Unexpectedly,
at
that
he
grinned.
He
had
a
flat
face,
brick
red
from
the
open
air,
and
he
grinned
as
if
she
had
said
something
dirty.
Sam
Wilson
had
warned
her,
watching
the
lights
of
Maitland's
car
claw
the
dark
sky.