Here's a second excerpt from my new novel The Adoption. Yesterday's introduced the main character, Jane. Now here's a passage about her husband, Darren.
Several times Darren had considered revealing to Jane that he knew how closely she was monitoring her cycle, and every time he had decided against. It wasn't that he feared her finding out. He didn't even feel bad for poking around in her underwear drawers because they'd always made a virtue of invading each other's privacy. Aha, so that's what you're up to, is it? Oh, so that's what you really think! And he knew what she'd be thinking now. She'd be beating herself up. Tears, loss of temper, throwing up: this was her customary build-up to a big bout of self-doubt. Knowing it was helping Darren to forgive her for last night's fury, yet he was not proud of it. He shouldn't need to be weak before he could be magnanimous. For him, it polluted the sentiment...They'd met a punk night in a Clapham pub. As was the custom at the time the headline band - an art-school outfit called Pollock's Scab with a four track DIY EP to its name - was supported by anyone eager to make a din. Among them had been a poet known as Gobb, whose free form anti-verse on themes of psychosis, impotence and rusks had been augmented by an electronic keyboard backing, played by a small female wearing a flying cap and fingerless gloves. At one point Gobb attracted a hail of the substance from which he took his name and not all of it found its mark. His sputum-flecked accompanist had completed her contribution from beneath her instrument, picking out dole-queue death chords blind. Darren had felt strongly drawn to her, and when Gobb's set was over he'd slipped away from the group of fellow students he was with and sidled over to her at the bar. "You were very good," he'd said.
She was sipping a glass of Guinness, miserably. "Very stupid," she'd replied.
"Oh, do you think so?"
"He's mad, isn't he?" she'd said.
"Who is?'
"The poet." She'd nodded across the smoke-fugged bar. Gobb had been leaning against the cigarette machine doing an interview with a fanzine. Judging by his volume and animation it might have been a reprise of his show. "I only did it as favour. He's on my English course. Hello, by the way."
"Hello. I'm Darren."
"Darren. That's a groovy name."
"Oh, do you think so?"
"That's twice you've said that."
She'd removed the flying cap and looked up at him with kohl-blacked eyes. Her hair was tied back with a big bow. Darren had liked that, and her cut nose. She was quite good-looking, he'd thought. Better-looking than he was. Still, he knew how to nurture findness in a girl.
"Does it make me a bad person?"
"No. On the whole I don't think so."
"That's very nice of you," he'd said.
"Groovy glasses too," she'd replied.
"Comulsory for neuroscientists," he'd said.
"I'll bet you say that to all the girls."
They still reminisced about this scene, sometimes as an aspect of foreplay.
"What was it you liked about me first?"
"You were so sweet and sexy."
"But I was all covered with spit!"
"Details, details..."
Darren, though, had long since speculated that some corner of his subconscious had spotted and, even then, been drawn to the stuff her quirky prettiness and sense of humour belied: neediness and fragility - the weaknesses that made him feel strong.
[Tomorrow, meet Jane and Darren's eldest child, Lorna].
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