Reader, I Married Him. Tracy Chevalier

that the details began to blur. She felt as if she might reach out now and touch the hard wet surface of his tooth. She put her hands in her coat pockets. Around them the grass was swaying and hissing. The silk webs floated. A bird darted up out of the field, flew a few feet and then disappeared between stalks.

      He was studying her too. Probably she looked tired, leached, aged, the classic new mother, not like the woman who had come up to him in a low-cut swimsuit and asked to borrow change for the locker.

       I’ll pay you back tomorrow.

       I might not be here tomorrow.

       Yes, you will.

      So confident, then.

      She hadn’t applied make-up, there was no point most days really, and her mouth was dry and bitter from the coffee. At least the long coat hid her figure.

      Did you go to Burma? she asked.

      Myanmar, he said, quietly. I did. For eighteen months. Well, officially to Thailand for eighteen months, but we went across the border most days into the training camps.

      I thought you would.

      Now it’s not such a problem getting in. Tourism.

      She nodded. She was not up to speed on such things any more; she’d lost interest.

      Was it difficult?

      She was not sure what she meant by this question, only that she imagined privation, forfeit, that he had made the wrong decision.

      Sometimes. We had a decent team. A lot of them were more missionaries than medics really, but on the whole the quality was good. I don’t know whether we helped really. The students qualify, then get arrested for practising.

      He shrugged. He glanced towards the north end of the park.

      So it’s still open?

      Yes. Last week before winter closing. You should go before it shuts.

      For old times’ sake. She did not say it. Nor, why have you come back?

      He glanced at his watch.

      I have a conference. I’m presenting the first paper, actually. I have to get to Barts.

      Oh, great. Congratulations.

      Hence the suit, the tidy version of his former self. He shrugged again. Humility; the duty was clearly very important. There was a pause. She could barely look at him; the past was restoring itself too viscerally. Since the baby she had felt nothing, no desire, not even sorrow that this part of her life had vanished, perhaps for good. Daniel had been understanding, patient. She couldn’t explain it: breastfeeding, different priorities, the wrong smell. Now, that familiar low ache. She wanted to step forward, reach out. Compatible immune systems, he had once said, to explain their impulses, that’s what it really is. For something to do she took her bag off her shoulder and rummaged around inside. It was a pointless act, spurred by panic; she was looking for nothing in particular. But then, in the inside pocket, she found the season ticket. She held it out.

      Here. It still has a couple of swims. They won’t check the name when they stamp it, they never do.

      He took the pass.

      You should go, since you’re here.

      That’s so thoughtful of you. God, I do miss it!

      He was grinning now, and she could see in him the uninhibited man who’d never cared about the cold, who’d plunged into the pool without hesitation and swum almost a length under the surface. She could see his damp body on the bed in his flat, those stolen moments, the chaos of sheets, his expression, agonised, abandoned, as if in a seizure dream. She could see herself, holding the railings of the bed, fighting for control of the space they were using. Walking quickly home, ashamed, electrified, and holding her swimsuit under the kitchen tap, so that it would look used. Luxury hour.

      She still swam, in October. Perhaps he was impressed because his interest suddenly seemed piqued.

      So, Alexandra. What’s your life like now? Are you still at the gallery?

      No. I’m married.

      Ah.

      She looked at him, then away.

      To Daniel?

      Yes, to Daniel.

      Any children?

      There was nothing to his tone other than polite conversation, the logical assumption of one thing following another. Or perhaps a slight wistfulness, some emotion, it was always hard to tell. The wind moved across the meadow. The grass rippled, like dry water.

      No. No children.

      He nodded, neither surprised nor sympathetic. She looked at the meadow. As if it could be as it was before. It was suddenly harder to breathe, though there were acres of air above. The lie was so great there would surely be a penalty. She would go home and the house would be silent, her son’s room empty. Or the baby would be screaming in the cot, and he would turn to ash when she lifted him up. The baby would be motionless in the shallow water of the bath while the minder sat on a stool, waiting.

      He was speaking, saying something about his engagement to a woman from Thailand; her name was Sook, his family liked her, they had no children yet either. He was holding the season pass. He looked contented, established, a man in a tie about to give an important paper. Everything had moved on, except that he was here, and this was not the way to Barts. She reached out and touched his arm. He was real, of course he was.

      You should swim, she said. Will you swim?

      He looked at his watch again.

      Yeah. Why not. I reckon there’s time, if I’m quick. What shall I wear? Will I get away with boxers?

      I have to go, she said.

      Oh. OK.

      It was too abrupt, she knew, a breach in the otherwise civil conversation between old lovers that should have wound up more carefully. But already she had turned and was walking away up the path. His voice, calling behind her:

      Bye, Alex. Lovely seeing you.

      She kept walking. She did not turn round. At the edge of the meadow she stepped off the track, put her bag down, and crouched in the grass. He would not follow her, she knew, but she stayed there a long time, hidden. From her bag came the faint sound of ringing. She was late for the sitter again. She stayed crouched until her legs felt stiff. Embedded in the earth, between stalks, were tiny pieces of brown glass from the old works. The wind had lessened, the rain still holding off. She stood. If she ran back to the lido maybe she could catch him. She could apologise, and explain, tell him that she’d been afraid, she’d been angry and hurt that he was leaving; she’d had to choose, as he’d had to choose. The baby was a complication, but she could tell him what the child’s name was, at least. They could exchange numbers. They could meet, somewhere between Brighton and here. Or she could just watch him swimming from the café window, from the corner table, behind the blind pane, his body a long shadow under the surface.

       GRACE POOLE HER TESTIMONY

       HELEN DUNMORE

      READER, I MARRIED HIM. Those are her words for sure. She