What follows is the opening scene of the contemporary strand of narrative in Where Women Sing.

In the silent hallway Theo’s breath makes a tearing sound. He stays leaning against the front door, too stunned to move, and in his head he sees her walking away from him: down the steps, hitching her suitcase with one hand, her shoulder sloping with the weight of it; the crisp turn she makes at the end of the path — left, towards the tube, the buckle of her raincoat flying out and clattering against the railings; the billow of the material in the breeze, the slate grey of it, thunder colour; her head dipped forward purposefully, the peroxide tips of her hair a determined shade of white.

His wife, walking away from him; leaving; going.

Alison.

Her name leaves electricity on his tongue, a copper tang that has him wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. He makes for the kitchen as if he is in a building he doesn’t know, everything is unfamiliar without her. He bangs cupboards open and shut searching for whisky, pours himself a shot, and then another, bracing himself against what is happening. Her absence feels different in every part of the house; he missed her differently. The long-limbed way she arranged herself on one of the stools in the kitchen while he cooked; the low-angled lean of her arm on the table when they had finished eating and were deep in oozy conversation; the elaborate twist of her curled on the sofa; the incline, painfully slight, left by her body in their bed. He searches for traces of her in every room, but all he can do is prove her absence to himself over and over. Their home seems like a wasteland, somewhere he cannot bear to be. He scrambles some eggs that he can’t then eat and sits foetally, not watching the television news, until the thought of ringing Patrick comes to him like some kind of deliverance.

He dials his brother’s number so quickly that his thumb hits two buttons at a time and he has to dial again.

“Patrick?”

“Ahh, some displacement activity, thank God for that,” there is a soft, acoustic thud as Patrick juggles the handset, shifting and settling himself.

Theo thaws a little at the sound of his brother’s voice. The rigidity goes out of him. “Sorry; if it’s a bad time I could - “

“No, no, no. I’m boring myself into the ground with a piece I’ve got to do for the Independent by Wednesday, so bring on the interruption.” There are more clicks and rustles as Patrick removes his spectacles, folds them shut against his chest and chucks them onto a pile of papers. After a beat or two during which Theo says nothing, he asks, “How’s tricks?”

Theo’s throat tightens and before he can answer he hears Hedda calling, “Who’s on the phone?” He imagines he can hear the ululation of his brother’s heart as Patrick holds the handset to his jumper and calls back, “Only Theo…”

Hedda says something about turning the oven down to 170° and the domesticity of it punctures him. He waits for Patrick to zone back in on him.

“Sorry. She’s watching East Enders. Unironically, it must be said. So how are things? How did the chocolate biscuit launch go?” Patrick’s attitude to Theo’s work is one of abstracted amusement.

“It was bathroom spray…” he corrects, “The campaign will no doubt be coming to a media outlet near you. It went with the proverbial bang.”

Alison will be in Highbury now. That’s where she said he lived. She’ll be standing outside his flat, setting her case down, pressing the bell, her face crinkled up with apprehension and delight and hopefully guilt and perhaps relief. He flinches as the door of the flat slams inside his head and he can’t see her any more.

“Do you know Frank Bacelli?”

He can hear Patrick thinking. “Doesn’t he do video installations?

I’m sorry, Theo, I’m sure it’s the right thing, I can’t explain it, I’m sorry

“Maybe… I don’t know, possibly.”

“I think Hedda went to an installation that he did at the Lighthorn Gallery, a few months ago.” There is more conversation, called back and forth. “Yeah. He does video installations. Last October, at the Lighthorn. She went with Alison.”

A quick slip of vertigo. Four months. Theo counts them on his fingers; fingers that don’t seem to be his own. He rubs the ends to test for feeling, clenches his hands.

“Why?”

He can’t erase the image of her sitting at the kitchen table as she breaks the news, her feet hooked onto the rung of her chair, her arms folded tidily. She looks complete and realised, like a study of herself and he understands now that this perfect, representational quality is achieved because she has already left him, in any sense that matters.

I’m sure it’s the right thing.

“Theo?”

“What?”

“Are you alright?”

“Yes. No. I’m fine. I’m alright. Really”

There is a slight perforation, a fraying at the edges of the silence between them.

“You’re not all right, are you?”

He shakes his head in the empty room.

“Theo?”

“Alison’s gone.” The words unravel out of him; the mess of it all, the mucky, messy telling of it. “She left this evening.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“She took a case with her. With her things. And her lap top.”

“Oh Jesus, I’m sorry.”

“She said Your heart still sings but I can’t hear the music. Vile, isn’t it? The words of a song I don’t know, apparently.”

“Is there anything that we can do?”

“But then it seems that there’s a lot I don’t know…”

“Why? Why has she gone? What for?”

“Is it all right if I come over?”

“I’m so sorry, Theo. I can’t believe it…”

“She’s moving in with Frank Bacelli.”

“Of course you can come over. We’ll make up the bed in the spare room. Jesus Theo, I’m so sorry. I just can’t believe it.”

***