She doesn't pack her bags straight away. After the conversation, this is what happens: she sits on the sofa and weeps. Douglas cannot listen. He goes to the kitchen and stares out of the window at the sky.
He stares and she cries, and together - apart - they acclimatise. Helena, to him knowing; Douglas to the knowledge. And you're the one crying, he thinks, of course.
The saddest thing is not being angry. The thing he's angry most at is being sad. He's not nearly such a desperate fool as to think it's all his fault, but neither can he blame her entirely - he had wanted her, from the beginning, partly because her own appetite was so visible in her, her need for attention so acute. Had he thought he could starve her so long?
Or rather, he hadn't thought it - had barely considered it - had left it to happen, left their marriage to disintegrate between the lies that strung together their periods of separation. Maybe he had always known, deep down, that she would leave him. No, not known. He is not prescient. Not a god, of the sky or of anywhere. Just a doubter.
And one who's proved right again. Doesn't it feel grand?
The kettle boils. And this is the game they play: a charade. They sip coffee in the sitting room, him on the armchair, her on the sofa. They sit in the ashes of themselves; her face is dry, and his flightbag is still lying in the middle of the floor. A gallows-humour voice whispers to him that this will make a fine joke, but he ignores it - for it does not fit into this charade.
If anyone were watching, Douglas wonders, would they guess the word was "married"?
