He seems reluctant to touch them, to pick them up, to cast his eyes over them, even. He can obviously tell that they are not the bearers of good news.
‘Look at them, please,’ I say.
He sighs, and I see a very slight tremble in his fingers as he reaches out and takes them in his hands. I watch his face closely as he examines them, studying him as carefully as he studies the photos. Harry is, I have learned recently, a much better liar than I thought he was. I hope that I will know if he is lying this time, but I can’t be sure. He is mercurial, and lightning quick, and I can’t afford to take my eyes off him for a moment.
He stares at the pictures for a few more seconds, then lays them back down on the table top, where they seem to shimmer in the light shining in from the window behind me.
He swipes one hand over his face, as though buying a moment to steady himself, then looks at me. He is pale now, and shaken, and looks more vulnerable than I’ve seen him for many years.
‘Where did these come from?’ he asks, eventually.
‘Shelley. She had a camera full of photos she only just got developed.’
He nods, and I wonder how he is going to play this. How he is going to react. If I can even believe his reactions any more.
‘Did you know about this?’ I ask, pointing at the photos. ‘Is this something you remember doing? If it isn’t, I understand, and we can get over it. That was then and this is now. But please, Harry, be honest – is this a shock to you? That on the night I was buried alive and you were crushed, you had your tongue down another woman’s throat?’
He cringes at my crude words, or my anger. Probably both.
He doesn’t reply, and I add, ‘Harry, answer me. I just need to know. Is this one of those things you forgot happened?’
I am, of course, giving him the perfect escape route. I know I’m doing it, and I don’t know why. It’s almost as though I want him to take it – as though I want him to claim ignorance, apologise for his youthful indiscretion, tell me he loves me and he’d never do that now.
Part of me wants that – although how it would fit in with the scenes of cosy domesticity at Alison’s home, I don’t know.
I do know that I’m scared. I’m hurt. I’m uncertain of everything and I don’t like the way it feels. So I give him that escape route – but he doesn’t take it. I don’t know if I am relieved or dismayed.
‘I knew,’ he says quietly. ‘I remember. I’m so, so sorry.’
‘That you did it, or that you lied?’
‘Both, of course. As to why I did it … well, I was an idiot, wasn’t I? I meant every word I said to you about how I was going to ask you to marry me. None of that was a lie, I swear. But … I was young. I was a fool. Maybe a bit of me even did itbecauseI was going to propose – maybe it was a stupid last hurrah before I made that commitment … I don’t know.
‘I can’t explain it any way that lets me off the hook. I hate myself for doing it. I hate a lot about myself back then – I was not a man with a huge amount of moral fibre. I always loved you, Elena, but back then I … well, I was easily tempted. Back then it seemed simple – she was pretty, she was fun, it was harmless. Just a silly kiss that meant nothing. Except …’
‘Except it turned out to be the last thing she ever did.’
‘Yes. Which is a tragedy on many levels. Please believe me – I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine how it must have felt to look at these …’
He pushes at the photos with the tip of his finger, like they are contaminated and he doesn’t want to come into actual contact with them.
‘Okay, Harry. You were young. You were foolish. One last hurrah. I don’t like it, but I can understand it. But … why didn’t youtellme? You told me about the ring. You told me that, and we worked through it, and I thought … God, I feel like a gullible idiot now, but I thought we were getting closer. I imagined we were getting … better. That this whole honesty lark might be good for us. So why didn’t you tell me? Why did you let me find out this way?’
‘You weren’t imagining it, Elena, and you’re not an idiot. We were getting better – or at least we both seemed to want to!’
‘Up until an hour ago I’d have believed that. Again, Harry – why didn’t you tell me about Greta, when you were clearing the air about the ring?’
‘That’s … that’s a complicated question.’
‘I think we’re well past simple, don’t you, Harry? Try and explain. I’ll do my best to keep up.’
‘All right, that’s fair,’ he says, taking a quick gulp of his cider. Now I know he must be desperate.
‘Well, I suppose one of the reasons it’s complicated,’ he continues, ‘is because I’ve basically tried to forget all about it. I was ashamed. Ashamed that I’d done that to you, that I’d been such an arrogant moron – that I was on holiday with a woman I loved, and I was messing around like that. It was insulting to you – and even more so later. When you … when you stood by me. When you supported me, and loved me, and married me, and displayed more compassion and morality than I’d ever had.’
I open my mouth to reply. To dispute. To tell him that I’m not that perfect – that I have made my own mistakes, too.
‘No,’ he says, waving his hand. ‘Let me get this out. It’s hard, and it’s going to get harder the longer I leave it. So – I also tried to forget about it because I felt guilty. Not about you – though that was bad enough – but about Greta too.’
