Significance by Jo Mazelis Read Free Book Online

make sacrifices for the sake of his helpless sibling.
    Some people might have called this evening a disaster, but Marilyn knew better. Disasters happened to people who didn’t expect them, who were shocked by the disruption to the simple routine of an evening at home. With Aaron to look after she found it was the evenings that went to plan which were the surprise. She understood Scott’s need for escape, understood too, that it was nothing to do with her, and that Aaron, his issues and problems and tantrums, somehow weighed less heavily on her. She was not a blood relative – she could, if she wished, just walk away.

L’ é criture Feminine
    Michael and Hilda Eszterhas were celebrating ten years of marriage. They had known one another for nearly fifty years, but for most of those years they had each been in relationships with other people.
    â€˜Do you know, I always sensed that there was something between us,’ Hilda said to Michael as they relaxed in the small boulevard café under the shadow of a plane tree. ‘Then when Bill died, I thought… Well, you remember…’
    Michael nodded gravely. He was a pragmatist and resisted Hilda’s attempts to dwell on romantic notions of fate and lost opportunities. They were together now. That was all that mattered.
    Hilda’s family life had been fixed and stultifying, middle class and middle England, C of E, tweed and lace, malice over the dinner table, spite in the rose garden, loathing in the bedroom (or so Hilda assumed about this last). Michael was part Spanish, part Jewish, part Irish. They’d first met in a dingy little pub in Cambridge after attending a talk given by E.P. Thompson.
    Hilda’s hair, though now almost completely white, was still waist length. She rarely wore it loose and tonight she’d woven it into a long plait. Michael was also grey, but these days his hair, or what was left of it, was cropped to a quarter of an inch, and in good weather was usually covered by a jaunty straw hat. In winter he favoured a black bargeman’s cap.
    They paid little attention to the young blonde woman sitting at the table next to theirs. Though Hilda had happened to glance over just as the blonde (rather ridiculously) tipped a perfectly good cup of espresso into the wooden planter by her side. Hilda had meant to mention it to Michael, but he was busy reminiscing about Paris in May 1968.
    They were both still passionate about politics, but had long ago ceased to speak of revolution. The word ‘revolution’ seemed to have become an obscure pop lyric. Both Hilda and Michael had police records. Not that anyone looking at them would guess that. And, as much as a criminal record might paint a picture of amoral lying, scheming, selfish ne’er - do - wells, both Hilda and Michael Eszterhas believed they were ethical, moral, selfless, honest people. That their criminal activities were righteous and legitimate, and the law itself was unjust.
    â€˜I sometimes wonder how things would have been if we’d got together sooner,’ Hilda had said, after the waitress had taken their order for a bottle of the local cider.
    â€˜The way I see it…’ Michael began, and he paused, as he often did when he was about to say something important. In the silence that followed, a fragment of someone else’s conversation invaded their ears. Ugly words spoken in English.
    Both Hilda and Michael heard it very clearly. Hilda had been gazing at Michael, listening to him, waiting for him to continue. As she heard the other voice, she saw Michael frown at the crudeness of the stranger’s words. Hilda’s eyes widened and her mouth gaped. Then she shook her head slowly from side to side.
    She and Michael understood one another, would not let other people’s vileness – their ignorance, lust and cruelty – spoil their evening. Hilda had glanced over at the girl the words had been directed towards. She wore an