didn't even notice. Since he couldn't think of anything else to say, Henry waited. Eventually his father said, 'I don't know if you're too young for this, but our ... relationship started to go downhill a couple of months ago. Well, maybe a little more than a couple of months. She ... she just seemed to change. It got sort of obvious her heart wasn't in the marriage any more. You ... you can tell. It's not hard. That's when I started to get irritable with you and Aisling. I'm sorry about that, but I couldn't help it.'
Well, you asked for this, Henry thought. He hadn't noticed his dad getting irritable with him and Aisling, at least not any more than usual and only when they deserved it mostly. He kept his eyes on his plate.
'So,' his father said. 'You see.'
That was it? So. You see. Henry said quietly, 'You have to tell me about Mum's affair, Dad.'
His father sighed. He looked wrecked, but curiously relieved. 'Hard to believe, isn't it? I still can't get my head round it.' He straightened up in his chair and pushed the plate away. Henry noticed he hadn't eaten one of the congealing eggs, or the hideous kidney.
Henry took a deep breath. 'Who's the man?' he asked.
His father looked at him blankly. 'What man?'
'The man Mum's having an affair with.'
The intensity of his father's stare was almost frightening. 'I told you, Henry. Didn't you hear me? It's not a man. Your mum's having an affair with my secretary Anais.'
The words lay there, stretched out across the air like a shroud.
His father offered to drop him off, but Henry said he'd walk. He took to the back streets and they were all so empty it was spooky. He walked and thought. He felt he was moving on an island a yard or two across and the world ended right outside it. On this island (that moved right along with him as he walked) he kept replaying the conversation with his dad.
Henry said, 'You're telling me Mum is having an affair with another woman?
The distress on his father's face was pitiful. 'Yes. I know it ... it ... it's ...'
Henry said, 'But you and Mum -- I mean, she's had children. Aisling and me. If she's ... you know ... that would make her a lesbian. Dad, that doesn't make any sense!'
His father shifted uncomfortably. He was obviously finding all this even more painful than Henry. 'It's not as simple as that, Henry. A lesbian isn't something you're born as. At least it can be, but not always. And it's not all or nothing either. People can go for years not realising they're attracted to their own sex.'
It didn't sound likely to Henry. 'Yes, but Mum's had children,' he said again.
His father managed a wan smile. 'Having children isn't all that difficult,' he said. The smile disappeared. 'I'm afraid there's no doubt. Martha and Anais ... Martha and Anais ...' He looked as if he might be about to cry again.
Henry pushed it. 'How can you be sure?'
His father told him.
In business you could set your watch by good old Tim Atherton. If he said he would be in at nine, he was in at nine. If he said he was going out for half an hour, you could be certain he'd be back in thirty minutes, not a minute more, not a minute less. Yesterday he'd said he would be back at five, but his appointment got cancelled due to some emergency. There was no reason for him to stay away from the office and he got back a few minutes before three.
The office itself was in one of those tall buildings developers put up all over Britain in the 1980s. Tim's company had all of the third floor. The doorman snapped a salute, a ground-floor receptionist gave him a nice smile. If you were a casual visitor, you had to be issued with a name tag that acted as a security pass, but Tim headed straight for the lifts.
It took a while for one to come down, but when it did, he had it to himself. The ride to the third floor took perhaps fifty seconds. He stepped out into the Newton-Sorsen company reception and said hello to Muriel who told him his wife had just called and
Well, you asked for this, Henry thought. He hadn't noticed his dad getting irritable with him and Aisling, at least not any more than usual and only when they deserved it mostly. He kept his eyes on his plate.
'So,' his father said. 'You see.'
That was it? So. You see. Henry said quietly, 'You have to tell me about Mum's affair, Dad.'
His father sighed. He looked wrecked, but curiously relieved. 'Hard to believe, isn't it? I still can't get my head round it.' He straightened up in his chair and pushed the plate away. Henry noticed he hadn't eaten one of the congealing eggs, or the hideous kidney.
Henry took a deep breath. 'Who's the man?' he asked.
His father looked at him blankly. 'What man?'
'The man Mum's having an affair with.'
The intensity of his father's stare was almost frightening. 'I told you, Henry. Didn't you hear me? It's not a man. Your mum's having an affair with my secretary Anais.'
The words lay there, stretched out across the air like a shroud.
His father offered to drop him off, but Henry said he'd walk. He took to the back streets and they were all so empty it was spooky. He walked and thought. He felt he was moving on an island a yard or two across and the world ended right outside it. On this island (that moved right along with him as he walked) he kept replaying the conversation with his dad.
Henry said, 'You're telling me Mum is having an affair with another woman?
The distress on his father's face was pitiful. 'Yes. I know it ... it ... it's ...'
Henry said, 'But you and Mum -- I mean, she's had children. Aisling and me. If she's ... you know ... that would make her a lesbian. Dad, that doesn't make any sense!'
His father shifted uncomfortably. He was obviously finding all this even more painful than Henry. 'It's not as simple as that, Henry. A lesbian isn't something you're born as. At least it can be, but not always. And it's not all or nothing either. People can go for years not realising they're attracted to their own sex.'
It didn't sound likely to Henry. 'Yes, but Mum's had children,' he said again.
His father managed a wan smile. 'Having children isn't all that difficult,' he said. The smile disappeared. 'I'm afraid there's no doubt. Martha and Anais ... Martha and Anais ...' He looked as if he might be about to cry again.
Henry pushed it. 'How can you be sure?'
His father told him.
In business you could set your watch by good old Tim Atherton. If he said he would be in at nine, he was in at nine. If he said he was going out for half an hour, you could be certain he'd be back in thirty minutes, not a minute more, not a minute less. Yesterday he'd said he would be back at five, but his appointment got cancelled due to some emergency. There was no reason for him to stay away from the office and he got back a few minutes before three.
The office itself was in one of those tall buildings developers put up all over Britain in the 1980s. Tim's company had all of the third floor. The doorman snapped a salute, a ground-floor receptionist gave him a nice smile. If you were a casual visitor, you had to be issued with a name tag that acted as a security pass, but Tim headed straight for the lifts.
It took a while for one to come down, but when it did, he had it to himself. The ride to the third floor took perhaps fifty seconds. He stepped out into the Newton-Sorsen company reception and said hello to Muriel who told him his wife had just called and
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