The Sense of an Ending

anything I said. Also that she was furious – certainly with me, but with herself as well. I can’t say I felt I had done anything wrong. I was about to open my mouth when I saw she was aiming the car at a speed bump, not slowing at all, and it crossed my mind that I might bite the end of my tongue off with the impact. So I waited till we had safely hurdled the bump and said,
    ‘I wonder how many badges that chap’s got.’
    Silence. Speed bump.
    ‘Do they all live in the same house?’
    Silence. Speed bump.
    ‘So pub night is Friday.’
    Silence. Speed bump.
    ‘Yes, we did go to Minsterworth together. There was a moon that night.’
    Silence. Speed bump. Now we turned into the high street, with nothing but flat tarmac between us and the station, as far as I remembered.
    ‘This is a very interesting part of town.’ I thought irritating her might do the trick – whatever the trick might be. Treating her like an insurance company lay well in the past.
    ‘Yes, you’re right, I should be getting back soon.’
    ‘Still, it was nice catching up with you the other day over lunch.’
    ‘Are there any Stefan Zweig titles you would particularly recommend?’
    ‘There are a lot of fat people around nowadays. Obese. That’s one of the changes since we were young, isn’t it? I can’t remember anyone at Bristol being obese.’
    ‘Why did that goofy chap call you Mary?’
    At least I had my seat belt on. This time Veronica’s parking technique consisted of getting both nearside wheels up on the kerb at a speed of about twenty miles an hour, then stamping on the brakes.
    ‘Out,’ she said, staring ahead.
    I nodded, undid my seat belt, and slowly got out of the car. I held the door open longer than necessary, just to annoy her one last time, and said,
    ‘You’ll ruin your tyres if you go on like that.’
    The door was wrenched from my hand as she drove off.
    I sat on the train home not thinking at all, really, just feeling. And not even thinking about what I was feeling. Only that evening did I begin to address what had happened.
    The main reason I felt foolish and humiliated was because of – what had I called it to myself, only a few days previously? – ‘the eternal hopefulness of the human heart’. And before that, ‘the attraction of overcoming someone’s contempt’. I don’t think I normally suffer from vanity, but I’d clearly been more afflicted than I realised. What had begun as a determination to obtain property bequeathed to me had morphed into something much larger, something which bore on the whole of my life, on time and memory. And desire. I thought – at some level of my being, I actually thought – that I could go back to the beginning and change things. That I could make the blood flow backwards. I had the vanity to imagine – even if I didn’t put it more strongly than this – that I could make Veronica like me again, and that it was important to do so. When she had emailed about ‘closing the circle’, I had completely failed to pick the tone as one of sardonic mockery, and taken it as an invitation, almost a come-on.
    Her attitude towards me, now that I looked at it, had been consistent – not just in recent months, but over however many years. She had found me wanting, had preferred Adrian, and always considered these judgements correct. This was, I now realised, self-evident in every way, philosophical or other. But, without understanding my own motives, I had wanted to prove to her, even at this late stage, that she had got me wrong. Or rather, that her initial view of me – when we were learning one another’s hearts and bodies, when she approved of some of my books and records, when she liked me enough to take me home – had been correct. I thought I could overcome contempt and turn remorse back into guilt, then be forgiven. I had been tempted, somehow, by the notion that we could excise most of our separate existences, could cut and splice the magnetic tape on which our lives are recorded, go back to that fork in the path and take the road less travelled, or rather not travelled at all. Instead, I had just left common sense behind. Old fool, I said to myself. And there’s no fool like an old fool: that’s what my long-dead mother used to mutter when reading stories in the papers about older men falling for younger women, and throwing up their marriages for a simpering smile, hair that came out of a bottle, and a taut pair of tits. Not that she would have put it