The Sense of an Ending

nowadays it is cut close to her skull and the grey is allowed to show. Those peasanty frocks she used to wear have given way to cardigans and well-cut trousers. Some of the freckles I once loved are now closer to liver spots. But it’s still the eyes we look at, isn’t it? That’s where we found the other person, and find them still. The same eyes that were in the same head when we first met, slept together, married, honeymooned, joint-mortgaged, shopped, cooked and holidayed, loved one another and had a child together. And were the same when we separated.
    But it’s not just the eyes. The bone structure stays the same, as do the instinctive gestures, the many ways of being herself. And her way, even after all this time and distance, of being with me.
    ‘So what’s all this about, Tony?’
    I laughed. We had barely looked at our menus, but I didn’t find the question premature. That’s what Margaret’s like. When you say you’re not sure about a second child, do you mean you’re not sure about having one with me? Why do you think divorce is about apportioning blame? What are you going to do with the rest of your life now? If you’d really wanted to go on holiday with me, wouldn’t it have helped to book some tickets? And what’s all this about, Tony?
    Some people are insecure about their partners’ previous lovers, as if they fear them still. Margaret and I were exempt from that. Not that in my case there was exactly a crocodile of ex-girlfriends all lined up. And if she allowed herself to give them nicknames, that was her right, wasn’t it?
    ‘Actually, of all people, it’s about Veronica Ford.’
    ‘The Fruitcake?’ I knew she’d say that, so I didn’t wince. ‘Is she back in business after all these years? You were well out of
that
, Tony.’
    ‘I know,’ I replied. It’s possible that when I finally got around to telling Margaret about Veronica, I’d laid it on a bit, made myself sound more of a dupe, and Veronica more unstable than she’d been. But since it was my account that had given rise to the nickname, I couldn’t very well object to it. All I could do was not use it myself.
    I told her the story, what I’d done, how I’d approached things. As I say, something of Margaret had rubbed off on me over the years, which is perhaps why she nodded in agreement or encouragement at various points.
    ‘Why do you think the Fruitcake’s mother left you five hundred pounds?’
    ‘I haven’t the slightest idea.’
    ‘And you think the brother was stringing you along?’
    ‘Yes. Or at least, not being natural with me.’
    ‘But you don’t know him at all, do you?’
    ‘I only met him once, it’s true. I guess I’m just suspicious of the whole family.’
    ‘And why do you think the mother ended up with the diary?’
    ‘I’ve no idea.’
    ‘Perhaps Adrian left it to her because he didn’t trust the Fruitcake.’
    ‘That doesn’t make sense.’
    There was a silence. We ate. Then Margaret tapped her knife against my plate.
    ‘And if the presumably still-unmarried Miss Veronica Ford happened to walk into this café and sit down at our table, how would the long-divorced Mr Anthony Webster react?’
    She always puts her finger on it, doesn’t she?
    ‘I don’t think I’d be especially pleased to see her.’
    Something in the formality of my tone caused Margaret to smile. ‘Intrigued? Start rolling up your sleeve and taking off your watch?’
    I blushed. You haven’t seen a bald man in his sixties blush? Oh, it happens, just as it does to a hairy, spotty fifteen-year-old. And because it’s rarer, it sends the blusher tumbling back to that time when life felt like nothing more than one long sequence of embarrassments.
    ‘I wish I hadn’t told you that.’
    She took a forkful of rocket and tomato salad.
    ‘Sure there isn’t some … undoused fire in your breast, Mr Webster?’
    ‘I’m pretty positive.’
    ‘Well then, unless she gets in touch with you, I’d leave it. Cash the cheque, take me on a budget holiday, and forget it. Two fifty each might get us all the way to the Channel Islands.’
    ‘I like it when you tease me,’ I said. ‘Even after all these years.’
    She leant across and patted my hand. ‘It’s nice that we’re still fond of one another. And it’s nice that I know you’ll never get around to booking that holiday.’
    ‘Only because I know you don’t mean it.’
    She smiled. And for a moment, she almost looked enigmatic. But Margaret can’t