Identity X Read Online Free PDF Page B

life.  He knew from the proof that lay before them that they were
hanging on by a thread.
    “I’m
proud of you.  Well done,” she said quietly.  It was a simple response, and as
she was saying it she was already walking towards the back of the room and
towards the kitchen.  He heard her calling out to him, asking if he was hungry
or not.  In fact he was starving.  He was sure that was why the whiskey had
taken such a tight grip on him.  He loosened his tie and pulled it out from
underneath his collar as he followed her towards the kitchen, tossing it
casually down onto the sofa.  Unbuttoning his shirt he opened the fridge and
pulled out a beer.  He sat down at one of the stools that were tucked neatly
under the island worktop.  As Hannah placed a plate of food down near to him he
pulled it closer with his fingertips.  It was a plate of pasta in an
unidentifiable sauce and was starting to dry at the edges.  He opened the far
draw er whilst balancing on his
stool, placing more trust in his ability to counter balance with an
outstretched foot than he should have afforded himself.  He gripped onto the
marble topping of the work bench to stop himself from toppling down as he felt
the legs of the stool wobble.  As he righted
himself, he used the fork that he had risked a fall for to mix the pasta
together and took a mouthful.  It tasted good, although too creamy for his
already curdled stomach.  From the other side of the kitchen he could hear her
telephone beginning to ring.  She stood in front of him propping herself up on
her elbows with her hands underneath her chin watching him as he ate the first
mouthfuls of pasta.  She didn’t seem to hear the telephone, and remained in
position, staring at him whilst he ate.  The fondness on her face, evident in
her simple and effortless smile and the tissue paper wrinkles underneath her
eyes which did nothing to dilute her beauty, made him feel guilty for
considering the photograph for a second time, and even more so for wishing he
had emailed it to himself.  I’m no better than Mark, he thought.
    “Are
you not going to answer that?” he suggested, finding the call a welcome
diversion from his own thoughts.  She turned to look at the telephone, her
previous gentle expression now wiped to reveal a blank, and if he was honest
with himself, nervous appearance.  She turned back to him, her face unchanged. 
“Shall I get it?” he asked.  He began to stand up, and he wiped the corner of
his mouth on the napkin which he had also pulled from the draw er .  As he did so she too stood upright and
smiled at him, resting her hands on his and encouraging him to sit back down.
    “No,
I’ve got it.”  She walked over and picked up the telephone.  “Yes?”  She
listened for a while, and Ben took a large swig on his beer.  Eventually she
spoke.  “Sorry, you have the wrong number.”  Setting her telephone back down
she returned to face him and picked up his beer.  “You know, tonight is not a
night for beer.  We are celebrating, right?”
    “I
believe we are,” he said smiling through a mouthful of pasta, the sauce of
which was escaping onto his chin, and a couple of drops onto his shirt.  She
took his beer and poured it into the sink.  She opened the cupboard from
beneath the island at which he sat and took out two glasses and a bottle of
expensive looking champagne.  In truth he had already drunk just about all the
champagne that he could handle for tonight, but such a truth could easily
shatter this fragile and unexpected ceasefire.  You don’t give a fucking
shit about me, you motherfucker!  Or our son!  I’m trying my best to keep us
together and you couldn’t give a shit!   He could hear the venomous and
spitty argument already, feel himself sticking his teeth together, clenching
his jaw and his fits, winding up his temper into a tight and knotted fur ball
waiting to be coughed up.  He would drink the champagne whether he wanted it