Richard tried to tell himself that it didn’t matter. It was a minor work frustration and it was Wednesday evening anyway; he should just forget about it, turn his attention to his Master’s. But he still seethed the whole way home, furious about what had happened earlier that day: the disagreement about the adequacy of the indemnity insurance, how Martin had undermined him, the way it had ended up looking like he was being unreasonable, when actually Martin was being cavalier. He was mainly furious with himself for caring at all. He had thought that publicly disassociating himself from work would make him happier and calmer, give him a sense of perspective, but it hadn’t. It made him feel worse, in fact: now he was caught between things, neither one nor the other.
He told himself what he always told himself: that he was on a different path, that he had different values, that there were more important things than money and status, like creativity, passion and family. When he spoke to Zoe about it on Thursday and Friday mornings, he believed it, became almost zealous in his commitment to this way of life. But he couldn’t always hold those ideas in his head and the fact that they so often deserted him made him doubt himself. Truthfully, when he was around Martin, he couldn’t access them at all. All he wanted was to feel successful again.
He found Eleanor at the kitchen table, drawn and white-faced. Rosie and Isobel were watching television.
‘Eleanor, I thought we said we weren’t going to allow—’
‘Richard, just don’t, OK?’
He took his coat off and dropped it on the sofa. He went into the kitchen, trying to put off the next question – it made him feel anxious and exhausted already, but he asked anyway. ‘How are you feeling?’
Eleanor grimaced. ‘Sick again.’
‘Actually sick?’
‘Three times.’
‘Well, that’s less than yesterday – maybe you’re getting better.’
‘I don’t think so. I think it’s getting worse. I wasn’t sick at all after lunch yesterday.’
‘Well, you look better.’ It wasn’t true; he didn’t know why he’d said it. He filled the kettle and switched it on.
‘I really don’t feel it.’ She slumped forward on the table.
‘You’ll feel brighter tomorrow.’
He was annoying himself with his glib, unassailable positivity but he couldn’t manage any other response. Eleanor’s illness frightened and frustrated him at the same time – its mysteriousness, its namelessness, the way it refused to follow a pattern or logic. He just wanted it to go away and at first, he had applied himself to the problem, suggested resting and time off, sourced advice from colleagues, sent her articles about possible causes of headaches. He’d tried to suppress his irritation at the defeated air with which she tried things – she never seemed to believe anything would work.
The only other thing he could think of was a private doctor but he didn’t know how they’d pay for it – they needed the money for the house. All that was left was sympathy, but that felt useless and flaccid, saying ‘sorry’ and ‘poor you’ over and over again when it didn’t change anything. He just had to save enough to get started on the building work – as soon as they could make the house feel truly theirs, things would be better. Eleanor would be happier and less run-down.
‘By the way,’ she said, ‘I found some more Emily writing today. But in the kitchen this time.’
‘Really?’ His tone sharpened involuntarily. ‘OK, well, we’ll wash it off.’
‘I’ve washed it off.’
‘So that’s fine, then.’ He was still sounding shorter than he meant to. He took a deep breath and tried to soften his voice. ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’
‘No, thanks. You don’t think it’s weird?’
‘She was just a child being naughty, writing her name on the walls. It doesn’t mean anything.’
‘It doesn’t give you the creeps?’
‘No! Come on, Eleanor, please. Can’t you just put up with it for a bit? It’s really not long till we can get started.’ He thought about his spreadsheet and didn’t know if that was true. They hadn’t saved anything since they moved in; the plan was already set back by two months. ‘I know it’s not right at the moment, but it’s going to be great.’
She looked around the room. ‘Sometimes I don’t know if it’s ever going to feel like ours.’
‘Eleanor! I’m trying, OK? We’ll get rid of all this crap, I promise you, it’ll be unrecognizable by the time we’ve finished. But you have to try too – you can’t be so negative about it all the time.’
Eleanor pressed her fingers into her temples; she looked like she was in pain. His frustration turned to guilt, which seemed to stop him saying anything. The moment passed. The television programme theme music started.
‘OK, come on, you two, bath-time!’ Eleanor scooped up Isobel and took Rosie screaming away from the television. He got out his notepad and started drawing floor plans, soothed by the simple act of committing marks to paper, creating something.
*
Later on, when the children were in bed, he showed her his notepad. ‘I had an idea about the extension – maybe we could make a little room for you, here, above the kitchen, like a study?’
She came and stood behind him, and looked over his shoulder. ‘What would I do in a study?’
‘I don’t know. Your work? Editing?’
‘I don’t do any editing these days. It’s not really part of my job any more.’
‘You could read there or . . . OK, maybe it could be a dressing room – we could put a . . . thing for your shoes in there or a wardrobe or something.’
She laughed. ‘Richard, I barely have time to get dressed in the morning!’ She peered at the notepad. ‘It’s miles from our bedroom anyway. I thought that was going to be a utility room.’
‘Yes, but I figured out a way we can get a bit more room under the street – like 48 have done, look next time you go past – so we can have the washing machine there and then we can have a room for you.’
‘I think we probably need a utility room more.’
‘Well, we can think about it.’ He closed the notebook and started tapping at the computer. ‘Can you just have a look at this? I’m thinking of adding it to the mood board for the sitting room. Also, did you know you can get skylights that shut automatically when it rains?’
‘We don’t have skylights.’
‘We will do! When we convert the attic. Come on, Eleanor, we’ve been through this so many times.’
She kissed the top of his head. ‘Sorry, I just can’t keep up with it – it feels like the plans change all the time. I still feel sick – I’m going to go and lie down, OK?’
Richard lingered in the kitchen longer than he was supposed to. Eleanor had warned him about keeping it free for Zoe after they’d eaten: ‘We need to give her her own space, Richard, or she’ll move out.’ He heard Zoe on the stairs and knew he should leave, but he felt listless and stuck. She hovered uncertainly in the doorway. ‘Sorry, I’ll get out of your way,’ he said, without moving.
‘No, no need! I’m just on my way out, actually.’
‘You look nice,’ he said, without really thinking about it, and then regretted it when she blushed.
‘Oh, right, thanks . . .’ she said.
Richard was suddenly aware of everything – his glasses, the remains of the children’s tea on the table, his strange little drawings on the notepad. She filled a glass of water from the tap and gulped it. He said, ‘Oh, well, have a nice time!’ and when the door went, he felt slightly altered. It was as though the light had gone out of the house, but he could feel it still, burning the back of his neck.