There was a silence as if someone had rung a bell or thumped on a table for everyone to pay attention. But Henry hadn’t rung a bell or thumped on the table. He’d simply asked a question. The only sound now was the sizzling of the Cajun chicken. One second passed. Two seconds passed. Was the guilt eating away at her?
‘Of course,’ she said, finally, slamming the oven door shut with her knee. ‘Turn off those beans, would you?’
She balanced the dish of chicken and hurriedly took it to the table. It sizzled and spat at her like a rebellious child. Henry drained the beans and watched the water race through the holes. Like my life, he thought, racing away from me and disappearing down the plug hole. Henry opened the wine and they sat at the table in silence, clattering cutlery like musical instruments until Imogen said,
‘Why did you ask if I remembered our wedding?’
Henry knew as he swallowed a piece of chicken that there would be no more to enjoy that evening. He savoured the delicious flavour and then put down his fork. His timing had been terrible. But even the aromatic tender flesh of the chicken could do nothing to seal the crack in his heart. He took a small sip of the Merlot. Really far too good a wine to have over an argument, he thought depressingly.
‘I know about Jim.’ There, he’d said it. No beating about the bush.
Imogen blinked.
‘Jim? What do you know about Jim?’
‘I know you and Jim are having an affair.’
Imogen’s face turned bright pink and her eyes dropped from his. She struggled to swallow, and Henry wondered for one frightening moment if she had a chicken bone stuck in her throat.
‘I was stupid,’ she said finally, laying down her knife but it missed the table and fell to the floor with a clatter. Henry looked down at her fingernails as it was easier than looking into her eyes and seeing the betrayal there. They were painted bright red. Just like Rita’s lips, thought Henry. But he shouldn’t think about Rita, especially her lips.
‘I was flattered. It was stupid.’
‘Stupid?’ repeated Henry. Just stupid? Not ‘I was wrong.’ Not ‘I betrayed us?’
‘I don’t know what came over me.’
Henry was silent. Jim was what came all over you he thought and then felt quite nauseous.
‘Say something,’ Imogen demanded, her voice now angry, like it was somehow his fault. For a moment he was confused. Had it been his fault?
‘What do you want me to say?’ he asked, rolling up his sleeves as though preparing for battle. She stood up abruptly and grabbed the dish of chicken, splashing hot fat onto the table. He saw her wince as the heat of the dish scolded her hand.
‘That was a waste of my time,’ she said angrily.
‘You’ve got fat on the table,’ he said flatly.
He cleared away the plates and wiped the table with a teacloth before following her into the kitchen where she was slamming dishes onto the kitchen counter.
‘How far did it go?’ he asked calmly.
‘It didn’t go anywhere, not really,’ she said, her voice shaking. ‘For a short time he made me feel special.’
‘A short time?’ repeated Henry.
Imogen downed the rest of her wine and fell into a kitchen chair. She seemed exhausted, worn down.
‘I told him I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t Henry. I really couldn’t. It was only cuddles and …’
Henry held up his hand.
‘That’s enough,’ he snapped. ‘I don’t want to hear it.’
He felt the nausea rise up in his stomach. He should have eaten more and most certainly shouldn’t have drunk alcohol. It would only irritate his stomach.
‘Henry,’ she said pleadingly, putting down her glass and beseeching him with her eyes. ‘I was just so needy. I feel so alone sometimes. If only we’d had …’
‘Children?’ he broke in.
