Roz said, ‘Well, I suppose you can come down for weekends or we can come up.’
This was so like her, the dismissal of a threat - surely? - to their marriage, that he gave a short, not unaffectionate laugh, and after a pause said, ‘I want you and Tom to come too.’
‘Move from here? And Roz sat up shaking her fair and now curly head so that she could see him clearly. ‘Move?
‘Why don’t you just say it? Move from Lil, that’s the point, isn’t it?’
Roz clasped her hands together on her upper chest, all theatrical consternation. But she was genuinely astounded, indignant.
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘I’m not suggesting. I’m saying. Strange as it may seem…’ - This phrase usually signals strife - ‘I’d like a wife. A real one.’
‘You’re mad.’
‘No. I want you to watch something.’ He produced a canister of film. ‘Please, Roz. I mean it. I want you to come next door and watch this.’
Up got Roz, off the bed, all humorous protest.
She was all but nude. With a deep sigh, aimed at the gods, or some impartial viewer, she put on a pink feathered negligee, salvaged from a play’s wardrobe: she had felt it was so her.
She sat in the next room, opposite a bit of white wall kept clear of clutter, ‘And now what are you up to, I wonder?’ she said, amiably. ‘You big booby, Harold. Really, I mean, I ask you!’
Harold began running the film - home movies. It was of the four of them, two husbands, the two women. They had been on the beach, and wore wraps over bikinis. The men were still in their swimming trunks. Roz and Lil sat on the sofa, this sofa, where Roz now was, and the men were in hard upright chairs, sitting forward to watch. The women were talking. What about? Did it matter? They were watching each other’s faces, coming in quickly to make a point. The men kept trying to intervene, join in, the women literally did not hear them. Harold, then Theo, was annoyed, and die y raised their voices, but the women still did not hear, and when at last the men shouted, insisting, Roz put out a band to stop them.