Conrad & Eleanor Read Free

before he left and it’s slipped my mind, that’s why I’m asking.’
    â€˜Oh. Well, I’m really sorry, I don’t think I can shed any light – let me just ask George.’
    Eleanor hears her palm clamp over the mouthpiece, the solidity of her flesh sealing up her conversation with her husband. Eleanor is ready when the hand lifts.
    â€˜Never mind, thanks awfully, Anita, I’m sorry to have ­bothered you —’
    â€˜If we think of anything we’ll —’
    â€˜Yes, there’s nothing to worry about, I’m quite sure. Love to George. Bye now!’
    OK, where is he? What has he done, the idiot? He was at the conference, he hasn’t come back. Tina was expecting him at work today. Eleanor leaves Con’s office and heads back to the kitchen, pacing the length of the room. He’s missed his flight, that’s the most likely – missed his flight and not got onto another and can’t cope, sitting in a heap somewhere like a sulky child. He will need rescuing. He was barely functioning at home – the complications of airports and shuttle buses have been too much for him. When she thinks of him she has that familiar sinking of the heart; he has gone downhill. Is this how Con will get old? Depressed, dysfunctional? Why oh why didn’t she leave him while the going was good? A little flare of excitement: what if something really has happened to him, and he doesn’t come back? It is the dutiful teacherly El who rounds up the sparkles from this firework and brushes them into a corner. For shame. Have you no heart? No no no! she laughs to herself, and her child-self kicks up her heels and cavorts. To be free of Con! To be free of Con without being the bad guy, without dragging them both through separation, without carving up the house, without the children’s recriminations (which would all of course be aimed at her) – a get-out-of-jail-free card, how good would that be?
    At the expense of his safety, his health, maybe his life? chides teacher-El. For shame.
    Then El suddenly remembers Con. She remembers him running along the beach towards her with toddler Cara perched on his shoulders, he’s a bull charging the matador, he’s ducking his head and shoulders and Cara is screaming with delight and El is laughing and dodging and her skin is tingling with anticipation for the moment he will catch her. It’s Con, who she loves. She slumps against the kitchen counter. What if he’s with someone else?
    She’s already thought it of course but now concentrates. Who would want him? Bitch. Because he’s dumb and sullen with you that doesn’t mean he can’t be charm itself to another woman. So: he’s with someone else. Who reflects back to him a charming, funny, clever Con, instead of a depressing failure. The familiar clamour of exculpation starts up – OK, she tells herself, OK it’s not your fault but that doesn’t change the facts. He is a failure. If he thinks he is, he is. With someone else he won’t be. Of course he’s with someone else.
    The punch lands. She crouches, back against the cupboard, arms clasped around herself, holding herself together. Con laughing with someone else, lightly touching her arm. Con alive and happy and funny and competent and not with her.
    Slowly she pushes herself to standing again, ashen with self-­disgust. What’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. As her mother used to say.
    The phone rings. Paul again. ‘I’ve been thinking, when did you last speak to him?’
    El can’t remember. ‘Last week sometime?’
    â€˜But he’s phoned you since he went?’
    â€˜No. Why should he?’
    â€˜You haven’t spoken to him for a week, Mum? Or texted?’
    â€˜No.’
    There’s a pause. ‘Shall I come round?’
    â€˜What can you do?’
    â€˜I’m coming round.’
    It’s