The Doll’s House by Evelyn Anthony

last two months, after she’d missed their anniversary. He had reproached her bitterly when she got back from the course at Branksome.
    She couldn’t tell him why she had so much work to do, why she was in the office on a Saturday, why their arrangements had to be tailored to the greater demands on her time. She couldn’t tell him what she was really doing. Once or twice she had been tempted, hoping that if he knew the training involved in her transfer to Intelligence, he would understand. Support her for a change. But she didn’t risk it. He was jealous, and nothing was proof against that. Sitting in the line of traffic, Rosa felt they’d reached a crisis point. Brussels would be the catalyst. She hadn’t dared to tell him that she would be going there in two weeks’ time. But she couldn’t delay any longer. She’d gone to the Embassy party, meaning to leave early, and get home in good time. James was busier now the economic situation had improved, she’d planned to be there and have everything word-perfect by the time he came in. Meeting Dick Lucas had combined with the congealing traffic to make her late. Very late, on this of all evenings.
    At last she got to the intersection and turned right down the pretty street with its smart Victorian villas where they lived.
    The drawing-room lights were on. James was home. She paused in the stationary car and checked herself in the driving mirror. She looked tense and anxious. It made her angry suddenly. Why had he changed into a jealous, carping man who saw her career as an affront to his own self-esteem?
    She got out, locked the car and went into the house. James was sitting in front of the television with a drink in his hand. He turned round and looked at her as the door opened.
    She said quickly, ‘I’m sorry I’m so late, I left the party early, but the bloody traffic was a nightmare. I’ll get dinner started.’
    â€˜Never mind about dinner. I’m not hungry anyway. Get yourself a drink and sit down, Rosa. I want to talk to you.’
    She knew that hostile look. Maybe she imagined it was colder than usual.
    â€˜Please, not another lecture. I can’t stand it. I’m not going to row.’
    â€˜I’m not going to row either,’ he answered. ‘We do nothing else, and I’m as sick of it as you are. It doesn’t change anything. I snarl at you, and you end up crying and I feel a shit. It’s time we stopped, Rosa. I’ll get you a drink. Sit down. Glass of wine?’
    He wasn’t being sarcastic; he wasn’t going to shout at her, or lose his temper. He was coldly angry, but it was different.
    â€˜I don’t want anything,’ she said. ‘What is it, James? Is something wrong?’
    â€˜I’d say so,’ he answered. ‘Wrong with us. It’s not working, is it?’
    â€˜No,’ she agreed. She felt miserable. ‘No, it isn’t. But I don’t know what to do. All I want is for us to be happy like we used to be.’
    â€˜If you really wanted that,’ he spoke calmly, ‘you’d chuck your bloody career and settle down to being a wife for a change. We’d start a family. We’d live a normal married life.’
    â€˜I told you I didn’t want children just yet,’ she protested. ‘I was honest with you from the start. You said you didn’t mind.’
    â€˜I didn’t expect it to go on and on. Year after year. All I know is, I’m not important to you, Rosa. Your job, the people you work with, but not me. I tried to go along with it; I went to those fucking Foreign Office parties where nobody even bothered to talk to me because I was just the husband. Not one of the gang. Most evenings I come home to an empty house. Last year you went off in the middle of our holiday because you’d been called back, some crisis or other. I’ve listened to all the excuses and tried to fool myself it would get