If she wanted to watch something on TV that he didn’t like, whereas before he would have stayed on the sofa with her telling her what a waste of time the programme was, now he could go up to his writing room and close the door.In the six months that had passed since they moved in, Alison noticed that he was talking less. To her anyway. Sometimes she would come to his door before saying goodnight and hear him muttering. She would open the door a bit and he would jump up to kiss her goodnight.“You not coming to bed then?” she would say.“In a bit, babe,” was his usual reply. At the threshold they would hug and then he would close the door again and she would turn and go to the bedroom.There on the bedside table were the magazines and catalogues of things to make their new home more comfortable, more beautiful, more individual. She would browse through them until she felt tired enough to turn the light off. In the hallway a thin strip of light escaped from beneath Martin’s door, and Alison could hear the tap-tapping on the keyboard.This was how it went on, Martin in his room with the door closed and Alison on the outside hearing the tap-tap-tapping.
