When Astarte Weaver parks her car and trudges across the quiet street, she doesn’t notice the greetings of sparrows and blackbirds or the coarse shrieks of seagulls. A cool, salty breeze whispers secrets through the laburnum trees that line the road like sentinels. She sighs in unconscious harmony with it. Her feet move automatically, one before the other on the already warm asphalt. They know the way home without instructions. Her feet have worn faint tracks that shimmer in the early morning light.
She fumbles in her big black shoulder bag, her fingers blindly seeking out her keys as she turns into number twenty-seven. The gate swings closed behind her and a weight lifts from her shoulders, as it always does when she approaches her front door. She glances down to admire the luminous clumps of lavender that edge the path and breathes in the heady antiseptic fragrance. The sea has brought a light mist this morning. Droplets of dew sparkle on fresh cobwebs cunningly woven across blades of grass and over petals of flowers. They will vanish as the sun strengthens and sucks up moisture but, for now, those delicate sticky threads wait to trap the unwary who are foolish enough to get drunk on the scent of nectar.
Mrs Hargreaves, her neighbour, comes out in her dressing gown and stoops creakily for the pint of milk left on her doorstep. She calls a greeting across the boundary of buddleia that separates their gardens and Astarte stops, keys in her hand, to enquire about her sciatica. Mrs Hargreaves has lived alone since her husband died four years ago, and this morning she is happy because her niece is coming to stay for a few days. Astarte watches her nylon-clad back as it retreats into the house, smiling wryly to herself as she fits the key into the lock and moves into the sudden gloom of the hall. Happiness lies in small things, she reminds herself as she closes the door behind her. A smile, a kind word, brings a glow to your day; a misty golden edge that lasts as long as you don’t try to capture it. She knows how it feels to be old, although she’s only thirty-two. She fights death daily on behalf of others, and loses the battle frequently. Sometimes, on mornings like these, she wishes she had chosen a different vocation. She feels tired, emptied out, but she knows that a decent breakfast followed by a few hours of sleep will revive her. And she has four days off; plenty of time to relax before hurling herself back into the fray.
She switches the hall light on, takes a deep breath of relief at being home, and instantly realises that something is wrong. The silence she has been eagerly looking forward to is filled with groans and gasps. Astarte stands very still, listening. A chill begins in the pit of her stomach and spreads outwards, creeping through veins and arteries and turning them to ice, even though the morning is warm. Steady grunts and squeals filter down from her bedroom, permeating the hall with a wall of sound. The primeval beat grows louder and faster with every passing second, and her heart accelerates along with it. She takes a deep breath to force oxygen into her lungs, hitches her handbag higher on her shoulder and, keys still clutched tightly in her fingers, steps quietly up the stairs and into the doorway of her pretty peach bedroom.
Marianne is poised astride Steve, making high squeaking noises that synchronise with his guttural moans. A section of Astarte’s mind detaches itself and drifts off to become an impartial observer, registers Marianne’s position, and is hardly surprised by it. Marianne always has insisted on being on top in everything, and Astarte has frequently applauded this, though at the moment she considers a slow hand-clap would be more appropriate.
She stands leaning against the door-frame. The last residue of energy drains out of her and her legs give way as she slides downwards to sit heavily on the floor. Her handbag lands beside her with a thud, and only then do they notice her.
In films the guilty parties leap apart, grasping the sheets close, and everyone talks at once. Usually the betrayed partner hurls abuse or nearby objects. But although Astarte is succumbing to a pervasive sense of unreality, this is no film. This is really happening, and she doesn’t know quite how to handle it. She sits slumped on the floor, handbag at her side, keys still dangling in her right hand, staring wide-eyed at her lover and best friend as they freeze in mid-coitus, their faces turned in her direction. The silence is broken into segments as the clandestine couple catch their breaths after the interrupted exertion.
If their expressions had reflected shock or remorse, Astarte would have cried a lot, shouted a bit, extracted promises of future faithfulness, fumigated her bed, and carried on as before. She would have been rather less trusting, but still willing to offer another chance. A feeling of security, of having something and someone to hold on to, has been more important to Astarte than anything else throughout her life, but the cold feeling in her chest is creeping upwards, freezing out logical thought. She wants to run away, to pretend that this has never happened. She wants to walk back out of the door and return an hour later when they have left. But Astarte has never been skilled at self-delusion. She hauls herself into a more upright sitting position and gazes blankly at both of them.
What impacts more deeply than the act itself is the smugness that rises in waves from the bed. She unwillingly registers that they intended her to find them. Steve was fully aware of when she would be home from work. They had planned to meet at his house later that day. Astarte feels sick.
She breaks the tableau by climbing laboriously to her feet. Her body seems to weigh a great deal, and she wonders whether the earth’s force of gravity has suddenly increased, dragging her down with it. A sudden vision assails her of the roof caving in, crushing the contents of the room, along with its unwelcome guests, into dust. Fleetingly she glances upwards, but the ceiling remains intact.
Marianne slowly and carefully eases herself off Steve, who winces but stays still, even though the cream silk duvet has slipped to the floor. His exposed body looks surprisingly pale and puny, and his hands slide from Marianne’s waist like dead fish as she clambers out of bed and starts to dress. Still no-one speaks, but Marianne holds Astarte’s gaze as she steps into her thong and jeans and pulls her shirt around her, groping for the top button. Her eyes are cold, with no trace of embarrassment or remorse, and Astarte wonders, looking into those narrowed slits, whether she ever really knew her. Steve gazes up at the ceiling as though the secret of life is emblazoned across it.
Astarte swallows hard. Her throat feels parched and tight; words stick like chicken bones, refusing to be dislodged.
‘Get out of here,’ she croaks.
Marianne silently steps into her trainers, not bothering to tie the laces, and walks with a slapping sound past her, through the door, and down the stairs. The front door slams behind her, the gate creaks a moment later, and only the shrill call of a blackbird warning off a rival disturbs the quiet morning. Astarte looks at the dishevelled bed and its occupant in distaste.
‘I want you to leave,’ she tells him quietly. Her voice feels distant, unfamiliar.
Steve’s eyes slide down from the ceiling to meet hers for a second before he looks away and nods. Astarte turns and walks carefully downstairs, throws her keys and bag on the kitchen table, pours a large glass of brandy, and swallows it in one gulp, hardly feeling the fiery liquid scorch its way down her throat. She pours another and sits with her head in her hands, trying to still the muscles in her arms that shake and twitch, until she hears the sound of quiet footsteps coming carefully down the stairs. Steve slinks past the open door and Astarte calls, ‘Wait!’ She holds her hand out, and Steve sheepishly drops his keys into her open palm. They feel heavy, and the cold metal burns an imprint into her skin.
‘My boyfriend and best friend. What a pathetic cliché. How long has this been going on?’ she asks tightly, looking up into his face. Steve raises his eyes from the floor and focuses on her. She registers discomfort, and something that could be defiance, in his hazel eyes. He smooths a hand through his short hair, leaving it standing up in spikes, then looks quickly towards the door. Astarte memorises every line of his face: the angle of his cheekbones, the furrow between his eyebrows, the slim curve of his lips. She pokes him, hard. ‘How bloody long have you two been sneaking around behind my back?’
‘A while,’ he mumbles. She breathes in sharply. ‘Two months,’ he admits, still not looking directly at her. The words slip from the corner of his mouth, and Astarte stands and raises herself to her full height of five feet and one inch. A surge of rage hits her like a tidal wave, engulfing her, filling her vision with a rosy mist. Her fist shoots upwards, the keys sharp as daggers as they strike skin and cut through to the cheekbone beneath.
‘You piece of shit!’ she screams.
Steve staggers back, his hand to his face, and she sees blood stream through his fingers as he bolts for the door and runs through, leaving it open behind him.
Astarte follows more slowly, closes the door, and leans her back against it, feeling its reassuring solidity hold her upright even though the floor appears to be shifting beneath her feet. She walks back to the kitchen, throws the keys against the wall, and stumbles to sit at the table. She drinks the brandy slowly. Then she rests her elbows on the table, puts her hands in her hair to grasp a fistful of curls on each side of her head, and weeps.