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But perhaps nobody would enquire; she thought that more likely. Only her immediate neighbour, Mrs Baird, might possibly be interested, yet Mrs Baird was a world traveller, given to trekking in Nepal, despite her age. A putative young friend would be of no interest to Mrs Baird, who could even now be seen at the end of the street, her wheeled basket clattering behind her. Mrs May marvelled at the purposeful progress of this rather stout woman, who, under guise of perfect suburban conformity, might even now be contemplating a visit to the temples of South-East Asia. I could have done that, she
thought; all it takes is a little courage. But it was the sort of courage she signally lacked. Courage to live alone, yes, and to die alone when the time came; courage to meet the empty day formally dressed and scented; courage to confront long endless Sundays, sustained only by a diet of newspapers and walks round the garden, the latter curtailed in case she was observed by idlers at their windows. What was missing was the courage that would enable her to put long distances between herself and her home, her bed. Even when married to Henry, and genuinely enjoying their excursions, she had been homesick, although at that stage, she remembered, her home was not entirely her own, so that the homesickness was very slightly mitigated. And she had only to feel Henry’s arm in hers, when he was beginning to be ill, to know that her duty was no longer to herself, that home was to be his refuge, no longer hers.

She bought smoked trout, potatoes and spring onions for a potato salad, blackberries, and Greek yoghourt. She took her shopping bag home, emptied the washing machine, and hung up his clothes to air; she would iron them this afternoon while waiting for the potatoes to boil. There was just time to fit in her hair appointment, although she had almost lost sight of the wedding in the light of the greater drama of her moral struggle with Steve. That was how she continued to think of it, and to marvel at the simplicity of her victory. Of course he could still overturn it, could transform victory into catastrophic defeat. This could still happen. Against this was the ticket to Paris, the return ticket to the States, already paid for. And anyway she bored him. Reduced to her sole company—for Kitty and Molly would prove inhospitable—he would soon want to look farther afield. She hoped that this could be managed without more delay, by the morning of the following
day, in fact. All depended on the presence of his keys on the kitchen table. She thought she had it in her to demand them, hand outstretched, if necessary. It was simply a question of confidence, and in this matter she had already proved herself.

While Jackie tended her hair she saw her polite face wearing an expression of abstracted thought, and realised that despite her resolution it would be difficult for her to resume her normal life. The previous week had brought a certain excitement, a certain amount of company. All this would now vanish, and her part in the proceedings would be overlooked, for after all what had she done? She had allowed herself to be made useful; she had not volunteered for active service, even though circumstances had drafted her into it. In the mirror she saw a woman behind her receiving the attentions of the manicurist, then hanging her little red claws over the arms of her chair to dry. That is all we are good for, she thought: to keep up appearances and thus avoid giving offence. It was the young who must not be offended by the sight of mad old people with wild hair and bad feet. The irony was—and it was a remarkable sign of sophistication on God’s part—that they in turn would give offence and not entertain the slightest idea that they were doing so.

At home, her chores completed, she sat and proceeded with her daily exercise, which she thought of as the reckoning. This was essential if she were to retain any semblance of self-mastery. Today the results were as good as could be expected: health more or less unchanged, eyes no worse but liable to tire if she read for more than an hour, heart giving its usual warnings. It might be sensible to find a local doctor, in case of emergencies. Monty Goldmark might exceptionally still visit, but this could be inconvenient for both of them.
Suddenly she was swept by a great wave of grief. What was she doing here, in this flat which she purported to love, which she did love, completely unoccupied, in the middle of a weekday afternoon, with only the sound of a car passing on a wet road to keep her company? And it would always be like this. Perhaps if Steve were to stay, she thought, I might be spared these moments when my nerve fails. But after she had laid the kitchen table for him, she wrote a note, reluctantly, and with a curious sadness: ‘Steve. Don’t forget to leave me your keys. D.M.’

‘Do I look all right?’ she asked him, as they left the flat.

‘Very nice,’ he replied, stowing his bags in the front of the taxi.

He was annoyed with her, but she had expected that. Her blue silk suit was too thin for such a cool day, but she was relieved to see that she was wearing it. The previous night she had dreamed that she had set out for the wedding in a dress of pale yellow crêpe, and a yellow pillbox hat; she was a good half hour late, but seemed indifferent to this aspect of the affair, was in fact bubbling over with high spirits, until the tube train in which she was travelling drew up outside Goodwood race course. By this stage she had acquired an assistant, to whom she was entrusting a rather precious piece of research. The wedding had quite receded from her mind, until she looked at her watch and discovered that it must be over by this time, that the newly married couple had already left, and that Kitty would never forgive her.

She had woken in a panic, reaching for her pills, and then relinquishing them. Tense, in the dark, she strained her ears to listen for Steve, either closing the front door or going into the
kitchen. She even persuaded herself that if she were very attentive she might hear the clink of the keys being dropped. But all was silent, and the only sound she could discern was the crepitation of the rain on the leaves outside in the garden beyond her window. She saw that it was just before five o’clock. She had not dared to sleep again, bethought herself briefly of the long lazy mornings she was keeping in reserve, and shortly after seven had eased herself quietly out of bed and gone to make a cup of tea. On the kitchen table the smoked trout and potato salad were untouched. She took an apple for her breakfast—for she would keep out of the kitchen until well into the morning—and went back to her room.

As usual when there was disagreement in the air she felt at fault. She tried to exculpate herself from what was after all a purely subjective impression, but without success. The early hour, the uncertain light, a natural apprehension with regard to the day’s events, all conspired to produce a sinking feeling of withdrawal. It was impossible to return to bed, and in any case she felt too restless and uncomfortable, distracted by the sound of dripping leaves. This was no weather for a wedding, yet the forecast had only referred to bright periods. After waiting tensely for half an hour she ran her bath; though it was still too early she made up her face and prepared her wedding outfit. She discarded Henry’s dressing gown, retrieved a scarcely worn housecoat from the wardrobe, and sat down until she judged it an appropriate time to enter her own kitchen.

In the dream she had been frivolous, uncaring, dressed like a character in one of the American films that she and her mother had so enjoyed, films that supplied them with their very small stock of worldly wisdom. Yet both she and her mother had been too grave by nature to profit from the example
of those flighty flirtatious girls, all of whom treated life as a series of delightful opportunities; and now age had reinforced that gravity, so that every small trial was a moral test. Somewhere, in another part of the flat, Steve was either preparing to return the car or deciding to keep it. She could hear nothing; perhaps there was nothing to hear. She opened the window wider, inhaled the poignant smell of wet earth. If she had been on her own she would have walked into the garden, broken off a few stems to put in a water glass, just in order to bring the outdoors in with her. The day would have been empty, but she would have been free. Instead she sighed, smoothed down the skirts of her housecoat, and prepared to confront the enemy.

She had anticipated an unpleasant interview over the breakfast table, but as soon as she came into the room he put the keys down and waited for her to pour his coffee. He was formally, even smartly dressed, and already he seemed a stranger. Seeing his intransigence she felt moved to make amends, although there was nothing for which she need apologise; at least that was what she told herself, remembering the envelope she had placed in his holdall. The uneaten food went into the bin.

‘Are you looking forward to going to Paris?’ she asked at last.

‘Yeah. Yeah, I am. Might hang around a bit. Establish a few contacts.’

She recognised this for the bravado that it was. She said nothing, busied herself with the washing up. ‘You sit down,’ she said, ‘since you’re already dressed. I’ve ordered the taxi for eleven-thirty. I’ll get dressed myself, and then we’ll have another cup of coffee. Why not sit in your room, make sure you’ve got everything?’

For she was suddenly ashamed of herself, of her fussy housecoat, of her tired eyes, of her anxiety to see this day over and done with. Once again the wedding receded in importance: all she knew was that she would be required to stand for a long time in a hot noisy room among strangers before she could come home and be on her own again. And even before that ordeal—for it was an ordeal—she must oversee Steve’s departure, must be vigilant until he was actually beside her in the taxi, his bags finally removed from the spare room. And all through the reception she must keep an eye on him in order to make sure that he left with David and Ann, which meant that she must stay to the very end. And then, when she finally came home, she must sit down and write to Kitty to congratulate her on a marvellous success. She would write because the idea of saying all this on the telephone made her feel quite faint. The telephone call could wait until the weekend, by which time she would hope to have recovered her composure. And even if she did not, as she hoped, recover her composure, at least there would be no witnesses to point out any discrepancies in appearance or behaviour. She would contact the cleaning agency, go back to the Italian café for her solitary lunches. It will all be as before, she told herself, but she knew that this was not true.

Their departure from the flat took place in silence. In the park the rain was bringing to patchy life the grass left piebald by the summer’s heat. Surreptitiously she felt in her bag for the keys, while pretending to look out of the window. Steve pretended to look out of his.

‘Write to me if you think of coming back to London,’ she said, as casually as possible.

‘I might,’ he said, after a pause.

‘Come, come, Steve, don’t let us part on bad terms. You’ve
had a pleasant break and now you’re off to Paris. You said you were looking forward to going.’

‘And?’

‘Well, then.’

There was no more to be said. She was in disgrace. At that point a spark of irritation, ignited by his mulish silence, but rather more by the weather and the unsuitability of her thin silk jacket, inspired her to say, ‘I hope you will not be ungracious at Kitty’s. She’s had a lot to put up with this past week. And you’ll remember to thank Molly, of course.’ If she had hoped that he would thank her she hoped in vain. In a way she could appreciate his obstinacy. She was obstinate herself, when there was nobody to object. And it was very tiresome when others impeded one’s will, particularly when one was young and had no others to consult. She saw all this, but was too exasperated to make further concessions. They sat in silence.

‘Here we are,’ she said finally.

Outside the Levinsons’ block of flats several expensive cars and a camper van were drawn up. They joined a rustling throng of highly groomed highly coloured women and acquiescent husbands, looking forward to a chat among themselves. In the hallway, at regular intervals, stood large gilt baskets filled with lilies.

‘Kitty pushing the boat out, as usual,’ murmured one lacquered matron to another.

‘I wonder the girl’s mother didn’t do all this,’ her friend replied.

‘Said she had to stay at home with the younger children. Not married, of course. If you ask me there’s no love lost between her and Kitty.’

‘Wasn’t there a divorce?’

‘The son. A bad business.’ An electric smile lit up her features. ‘Kitty, darling, how lovely all this is. And how lovely you look. We’ll go through, shall we? I must congratulate the bride. Where is she?’

Ann was easy to locate: she was the tallest person in the room. She looked not unattractive in her lavender shift, her now neat head bent as she inclined an ear to Molly. David had been appropriated by Harold for a final consultation: dietary instructions, she surmised, were being issued. Both young people looked mystified and bored. Maids darted across the room with trays of champagne and plates of canapés. Mrs May felt her head begin to ache. She had lost Steve and did not know anyone else. For a moment she wondered if she might leave, might creep down the hill in her silk suit and find a taxi—or a bus! A bus filled with ordinary people!—and go home. But Kitty, resplendent in bronze grosgrain, was pushing her way through the crowd towards her, holding on to the arm of a stoutish man with a beard, dressed in an old-fashioned three-piece suit. ‘And of course you know Gerald,’ she was saying, to people who could not conceivably ever have met him. ‘My son.’ For he was her son, and hers only. Her face glowed with a supernatural flush of youth. She was a woman in love.