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I wrote half of the first chapter, and then the offer of some small job intervened. I was still too afraid of running out of money to turn things down. And also, at that point, I was asked to a
party by the Tynans in their pitch-black flat in Mount Street. Shortly after this, Ken rang me up and asked me to go to the theatre with him. It transpired that Elaine Dundy, his first wife, was
going to America for three months and Ken asked me to be his evening companion during that time. It was a welcome and distracting proposition, and I thought, Why not? Only, I decided, as he was
married, I’d not fall in love with him: I’d behave more as men did about these situations. I’d enjoy three months, and when Elaine came back I’d disappear –
unpainfully – from the scene.

At that time Ken was a most successful and rightly acclaimed theatre critic. He worked for the
Observer
, and had a good deal to do with that paper’s circulation. He was tall and
good-looking with light brown hair that fell in a lock over the side of his large, high forehead, and large blue-grey eyes – all of his features were large.
He was a
creature of self-constructed layers. At first sight he looked like most people’s notion of a privileged, handsome undergraduate with the assurance and the continuous flow of asides designed
to shock. He also gave the impression that, as people would say nowadays, he was cool, that he would never be out of his depth and that nothing could happen that he didn’t expect and could
deal with. There was an air of indolence about him, but this was underlaid by a sharp and perceptive intelligence. He looked much of the time as though he were waiting for something to amuse or
excite him at any moment. He dressed flamboyantly in beetroot-coloured suits, white jackets and shirts of various brilliant colours. There was another layer to him – more childish –
that could emerge. He adored glamour of almost any description: famous names, exotic food, dressing up, late-night parties. The core of him was his genius as a spectator and the way in which he
could communicate with pithy brilliance what he saw and heard. He was also, however, an unconfident, uncontrollable romantic who was constantly warding off disappointment lest it should turn into
despair. This much I learned of him during the three months, which were, indeed, both distracting and enjoyable. We went to the theatre every night and then out to a variety of restaurants for
dinner. He took to sleeping at my flat, using his own only for writing his copy and collecting clothes. One Sunday night he took me to a jazz concert – I think at Earl’s Court –
and we went to see Louis Armstrong afterwards. He was sitting in his dressing room, majestically benign, putting little pieces of soaked cotton wool on his mouth where he’d split his lip
playing. Ken wanted to learn to play the trumpet and had a stab at it for a while.

We went to bed very late. Ken had little use for mornings. He would go off about midday having arranged where we were to meet in the evening. We weren’t compatible lovers: both of us, I
think, were shy in this respect. I never gave him what he wanted, because I never knew what that was, and my sex life had become so confused and muddled by guilt, and general failure – Laurie
now
seemed like a distant oasis long lost in the desert – that I didn’t consider it. I
liked
Ken, enjoyed his marvellous company, his affection and his
funniness and left it at that. One of the most affectionate memories I have of him is his dancing and singing ‘The Rain In Spain Stays Mainly On The Plain’ stark naked. The only time
Elaine was mentioned was when he said that on her return they were going to Spain to see some bullfights – another spectacle he loved. He gave me his book
Bull Fever
to enthuse me, but
it didn’t.

Our parting was easy and amiable. Some months later he wrote me a long letter saying that he was going to visit Gordon Craig, Isadora Duncan’s former lover and a pioneer of stage design,
in the South of France, and would I accompany him? He
did
love me, he went on to say, but I was too splendid for him. And much else: it was a very good letter, full of – I was going to
say himself, but what I mean is full of what he was. I didn’t see him for a long time after that. I missed life with Ken, but mildly. On the whole I was pleased with myself for not minding
more. If I was to be doomed to play second fiddle in the lives of the men I encountered I need not fall miserably in love with them. This seemed a realistic and sensible conclusion, and perhaps it
would enable me to concentrate upon my work as Peter Peters was constantly urging me to do. Sense and realism don’t enthrall. It seemed that I must settle down to hard work, and fewer,
smaller pleasures.

It was somewhere about then that I got to know Victor Stiebel. Judy Campbell, the lovely actress whom I’d first met with Pete during the war, invited me to a party at her house. Victor
wasn’t then smitten with the multiple sclerosis that would eventually kill him, and was at that time making the most beautiful romantic clothes in London. He was small, with thick white hair,
brilliant blue eyes and the charm that comes with a sincerely passionate interest in other people. He treated me as though I was the most interesting person he’d ever met. This, of course,
made me more interesting, as it did everyone he talked to. After we had been
chatting for some time, about theatre, books, music, Judy came by with a jug of martini and said,
‘She’s just had a great success with her last novel, Victor. You ought to read it – it’s marvellous.’

‘You write? And you never told me? What modesty! Sandy!’

A young man came over to us. ‘This is Sandy Wilson.
Salad Days
, you know. This is Jane Howard. We are told to read her new novel.’

‘I’ve
read
her new novel. It touched me to the core.’ There was a pause, and then he said: ‘Do you know a novel called
The Beautiful Visit
? Because that is
the only novel I can recall having touched me as much.’

Not sure now whether he was having me on, I said I’d written it.

‘
You
wrote that as well? I am staggered. How can I have forgotten your name? Oh, Victor, what a
treat
you’re in for.’

‘
Was
he having me on?’ I asked Victor, when he’d gone.

‘Of course not. Can’t you accept a glorious coincidence when it comes your way?’

From then on we were friends. It transpired that Victor wanted a new hi-fi and I told him that Colin would do it for him. They got on extremely well, and then, when it came to Victor paying him,
Colin said, ‘I think my sister is the kind of person who should wear your clothes. Could I have a dress instead of money?’ Victor was very touched by this, agreed immediately, and
shortly afterwards Colin and I went to Cavendish Square and sat on tiny gilt chairs while various models were shown us. Colin, in his best dark trousers, looked like a benevolent spider.

I soon discovered that while I passionately wanted a little black dress, Colin envisaged me in a full-blown ball gown. Victor told the
vendeuse
to bring out the Wedgwood-blue silk for me
to try. Dresses of that sort were built upon an elaborate structure of stiffened coarse net, whalebone and layers of underskirts. It wasn’t the kind of dress that anyone could have got into
by themselves – it reeked of ladies’ maids. ‘That’s just what I mean,’ Colin said, and
then, ‘You do like it, don’t you, Jinny? It does
suit her, doesn’t it?’ to Victor. I realized I couldn’t disappoint him. I was going to have to take a dress I’d probably never get a chance to wear.

Victor said we should also try some of the black dresses. The third was of soft corded silk, very simple with a low round neck, a neat waist and a bell-shaped skirt. ‘I think,’
Victor said, ‘that you should have them both.’ I knew then that he’d been aware of exactly what Colin and I had been thinking and had chosen this generous path to suit both
parties. Everybody was delighted.

I did wear the ball dress once – at a dinner in the Guildhall for the Arts and Sciences to which I was invited. A friend had to dress me, but I was deeply grateful I had it as the dinner
was very grand and fellow writers were wearing their orders; I had none. The first person I met before dinner was Rosamond Lehmann. She looked at me with cool distaste then pointed out that I had a
shoulder strap showing.

I still hadn’t come to terms fully with living alone. Since writing is necessarily a solitary business, I succumbed to almost any distraction that involved being with people. Evenings, in
particular, weren’t for writing, but parties or concerts, theatres or cinemas – or simply going out to dinner with men who asked me. On one such occasion, I was asked by a man I knew
very slightly, a lawyer, who, I found, had invited a friend of his to make a third. For reasons that will become clear later, I shall change both their names. They were both Jewish, and as dinner
progressed, it became clear to all three of us that my host’s friend, whom I shall call Sam, and I were immediately attracted to one another. Sam had been one of the people to whom Romain had
dedicated a book. He was full of energy and intelligence, and he clearly liked the company of women. The next morning he rang me and asked me to have dinner with him, and to come to his flat for a
drink beforehand.

He lived in Onslow Square. The flat was beautifully furnished and decorated: it was clear he had very good taste. He told me he was married, to a Swiss girl who wanted English nationality. They
were friends, but it wasn’t a serious marriage. Suzanne was away – she worked for a producer of art books and her work took her to Switzerland, Germany and France a
good deal. In a short time we became lovers, and when – with friends – I rented my brother’s mother-in-law’s, Ruth de Lichtenburg’s house in St-Tropez, Sam came too.
The party consisted of Pinky and Martyn Beckett, friends of Arthur Koestler’s of whom I’d become very fond, and Celia and Arthur Goodman, the same Celia who had told Arthur that if our
affair came to an end, she would still regard me as a friend. On arrival Martyn, exclaiming that the journey had exhausted him, threw himself on the double bed in their room, and shot up at once
with a cry. A black cat and several kittens emerged from under the quilt – unharmed, thank God, said Martyn.

The first week was wonderful. St-Tropez wasn’t spoiled then. The villagers still fished. There was a shop where you could have sandals – exactly as the Romans had worn – made
for two pounds. There was Senquier, the café and pâtisserie that sold the best nougat in the world, made to an old and secret family recipe. Our house was outside the village near
rocky coves and the great sandy beach of Pampalone. It was deserted in those days, except once when we saw Brigitte Bardot covered only partly by her tawny mane and more efficiently by a bronzed
young man. Round their ecstatic writhing bodies, two children walked, solemnly collecting shells. Daringly, we tore off the tops of our bikinis, and browned ourselves. The Becketts and the Goodmans
knew each other through Arthur, but Sam, the only newcomer, was a great success. He got on with everyone. A pleasurable routine was quickly established: the mornings on a beach, a picnic lunch,
home for a siesta and then an excursion into the village for drinks on the harbour front. I remember one evening seeing the Windsors at one of the grander restaurants, she looking like the wrath of
God, he like a miserable little boy. Augusta, the de Lichtenburgs’ faithful housekeeper, made us dinner and at night Sam and I – and, I imagine, all of us – made love under
ancient mosquito nets
through which experienced mosquitoes frequently found their way.

Sam had one of those faces most accustomed to animation – telling jokes, laughing at other people’s; even listening was an animated process with him, as his face would reflect his
responses. Sometimes, I’d catch him when we were alone or there was a silence and, looking at him, I saw nothing but despair. ‘Are you all right?’ I asked one day in the car.
‘Are you happy?’

‘Of course I’m happy, my little darling. How could I be anything else?’ A strangely unsatisfactory reply, but the next moment he was singing and making plans about the
evening.

Ten days into the holiday Celia had a bad attack of asthma. She’d always been fragile, and after a night and a day spent by her bed as she fought for breath, Arthur felt he must drive her
home. She preferred to fly and be home faster, and went on the earliest available plane. Arthur had to drive his car back, and it was arranged I should go with him, as Sam was also leaving a few
days before the end of the holiday. ‘Back to making suits for lunatics,’ he remarked.

Arthur’s marriage to Celia was very happy for both of them. I went down to their house in Crondall to help with their first baby, Ariane. Some years later, and not very many, Arthur was
killed by his dog, which tripped over his gun when Arthur was resting during a shoot.

During the following autumn and winter it became clear to me that Sam’s relationship with his wife Suzanne was nothing like as simple as he’d told me. He reiterated that he felt
responsible for her. I took this to mean that she was in love with him but it wasn’t reciprocated. It seemed likely that an arrangement that had been made in good faith had, on her part, at
least, turned into something else. Whenever she returned from one of her trips abroad, he’d explain that he couldn’t see me much because he felt guilty about her.

Gradually, during those months, more information about him trickled out. His family had a tailoring business in the East End.
They were Orthodox. His parents had wanted him
to become a rabbi. He’d been in the Army during the war, I think in intelligence, and he’d been an examiner of Nazi war criminals at Nuremberg. When I asked him about this, he merely
said, ‘It had its moments.’ But his face became implacable – closed. After conversations of this kind, he’d revert to a kind of frenzied gaiety.

Slowly I realized that he was leading a completely double life. His family never came to his flat, he went back to them at intervals, and they knew nothing of his marriage – they’d
have gone through the roof if they had found out about it. Suzanne wasn’t a Jew, ‘Any more than you are, my little darling.’ I had some Jewish blood way back from a liaison
between Leopold II and a Rebecca Goldschmidt: he laughed, ‘A very few drops of your blood.’ The manic gaiety began to be hedged in by fits of melancholy. In January he said he had to
take Suzanne for a holiday in Mexico. She wasn’t happy and he’d always promised to take her there. ‘And then I shall come back to see you.’ While he was away I tried to
work, but I felt suspended. I loved Sam and he said he loved me, but I was no longer sure what either of us meant. I told myself that when Mexico was over, he would come back and everything would
be as it had been in the summer. It wasn’t.