But during the morning he became aware of an increasing restlessness: something he had been experiencing in a milder degree for the past week. Ever since he had married he had looked forward to going home opening the front door and seeing with a sense of satisfied pleasure Ann appear to greet him. But these past five weeks had changed all that: the thought of returning each evening to the empty bungalow irritated him now.
His mind shifted to the conversation he had had with Parker. The Cigale.
He had seen the nightclub several times from the outside. It was down a side turning off Main Street: a gaudy place, decorated with neon lights and chromium. He recollected the glossy pictures of show girls that he had glanced at as he had passed.
It was not a place for a respectably married bank official to go to. As he closed his till before going to lunch, he decided firmly against the Cigale. He would go home as usual and be bored.
He went down to the cloakroom for his hat.
Parker was washing his hands, as Ken came in.
“There you are,” Parker said, reaching for a towel. “Well, have you made up your mind what you are going to do tonight? What’s it going to be — wine, women and song or just a nice, friendly woman?”
“I’m going home. The lawn wants cutting.”
Parker grimaced.
“Hell! You must be in a worse rut than I am. Imagine cutting the lawn when the wife’s away! Seriously, Holland, you have a duty to yourself. What the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve about. It may be your last chance before you get old and useless.”