The Third Shadow

Twenty-four

On each of the two or three occasions during our marraige that we'd decided to redecorate the living room, Heather had always urged a strong, bold colour. Too dark, I'd tell her. Too difficult to live with. Judging from the predominantly deep burgandy tone of her new home, it seemed Gordon had let her have her way. I could only conclude that this subservience in matters of interior decoration had been part of the attraction.

"Of course, you can't see much of the sea from here in the living room." Foster's eyes tossed upwards at the open plan staircase behind him."Guarantee you though, up there in the master bedroom you can see practically all the way to Norway!" There was an accompanying chuckle at his own exaggeration, north European geography obviously not a strongpoint: sailing due east from Saltburn the first country you'd reach would in fact be Denmark. "That's the beauty of the place see. The whole village is on a slope."

Heather was in the kitchen fixing a round of teas. At the sight of her ex husband being accompanied down the street by her second husband, she'd tossed aside her pruning scissors and spread her lips into a wide, unashamed beam. 'Jim! I'd thought the chap passing in that van had looked a bit like you.' There'd been a brief, one-sided sort of hug at the front gate, my own arms limp. 'Well come inside, come inside. Great to see you again. ' Like I was some kind of relative, a cousin she'd once been close to but hadn't seen for a while.

"I owe it all to you really," Foster droned on. "Took your lead. Thought to myself, 'why bother slogging through those final few working years just for an extra couple of quid in my pocket?'" It explained what he'd been doing strolling back from the newsagent's at half past ten on a week day. "A bit of inheritance helped. My mother's sister, died a spinster. Who'd have thought the old girl would have had so much stashed away under the mattress?"

There was another self-satisfied chuckle. Quite beyond the fact that he'd stolen away my wife, I wondered how on earth I could have ever considered the man a friend.

"So... Who do you fancy in the big game tomorrow night?"

By way of reply, I tossed my shoulders into a shrug. One that said I don't forgive you and will never forgive you so please, let's just quit the matey smalltalk eh.

The stupid sod ploughed on regardless: "Got a tenner on England to win two-nil. Well, you've got to believe, haven't you?"

I wasn't even looking at him, had twisted my neck the other way to study the wedding portrait on the wall nearby. The lens was angled slightly downwards, his face framed diagonally beneath Heather's. His remaining hair was neatly gelled back, the suit sharp looking, the smile the same smug variety he'd been wearing for the last five minutes. Heather's own smile was a little less effusive perhaps, her expression more reflective than overjoyed. The look of someone questioning their decisions? It was fanciful probably; she'd just been a little tipsy from the champagne no doubt.

That it was a professional shot was clear from the pose and composition, the out-of-focus blurring around the edge intended to lend a dreamy, romantic feel. We hadn't had a photographer at our own wedding, I recalled. Hadn't been able to afford one. A colleague of mine at the time had been press-ganged in to doing the duties. Peter something. Davies? Davidson? The guy had done his best but the results had inevitably been disappointing. For the next twenty-eight years the newlyweds gazing back from the top of the TV had been a rather serious, stiff-looking pair. An anniversary-day flick through the group shots in the album revealed friends and family members with closed or glazed eyes, blurred heads, missing shoulders. The whole thing was so amateurish it seemed ever more amusing with each passing year.

I wondered what she'd done with them, all those old wedding shots. This in turn reminded me of Diane, what she'd said the previous night. Not just the wedding photos but half a lifetime of memories, all packed away in a box somewhere.