By Grace Wynne-Jones
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I expect to find biology textbooks and magazines about cars, and I do. I also find an empty box of Turkish Delight, which makes me smile: Turkish Delight is one of Diarmuid’s few guilty passions. I am about to go downstairs and make myself a cup of tea when I see what looks like a handwritten letter poking out from his brown leather Filofax, which is on a chair next to his navy-blue boxer shorts. I shouldn’t look at the letter. Of course I shouldn’t look at it. It’s a woman’s writing. It must be.
37 Chapter Four I AM STARING AT the aquamarine curtains in Diarmuid’s bedroom. I think of it as Diarmuid’s bedroom even though it is still, theoretically, ours. I took ages choosing those curtains. I wanted them to be textured and soft, and they are. They are also lined in thick cream cotton. It’s expensive lining, because I wanted the curtains to last and not get bleached by sunlight. Everything in this room was chosen with such care and such concern about its durability – apart from the man sleeping beside me.
I am just not the sort of person who does that kind of thing. The only people who don’t seem to be surprised are Fiona and Erika. Before I got married, I sometimes saw them huddled together in earnest conversations, and I knew they were discussing me because they always said things like ‘So you use five carrots’ when I joined them. Erika and Fiona are not the type of women who sit around discussing casseroles. I assumed they were talking about wedding presents; but now I suspect they were wondering how to tell me they didn’t think Diarmuid and I were suited.
The Truth Club by Grace Wynne-Jones