Staring intently at successive small patches of carpet, he doesn’t notice the failing of the light until he’s reached the top. He flicks the bulbous switch and doesn’t see any red or rose blush on the stair carpet. He gathers the damp toilet paper he’s used to soak up the water and turns towards the bathroom to flush them away, glad he’s saved them from this, at least. But there’s more blood on the landing and he chides himself for not anticipating that. Finally, after more scraping, dousing, scrubbing and blotting, it’s done. With tight shoulders and aching head, he wishes that someone could at least have called him from the hospital to say what’s happening. Hands full of soggy, stained loo roll, William pushes open the door to the small toilet.

A sharp cry punches out of his mouth. In spite of his ignorance, he’s pretty sure the gaudy mess in the toilet bowl means Gloria and Ray are no longer expecting a baby. He stares at the scarlet muddle for a few moments, then, with goose bumps on his bare arms, William grips the Bakelite handle and pulls the chain.

43

‘Isn’t she beautiful?’ William says.

Gloria still has her arm hooked through his, even though the walk is over.

‘Mmm,’ Gloria says, tilting her head at Ophelia, at the upturned hands and the half-open mouth.

‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so lovely,’ William says, smiling from the painting to Gloria and back to the painting again. ‘Look at that tree trunk! I could reach out and stroke it – and those flowers on the water – and how real her hands look!’

‘Mmm.’

‘You don’t sound impressed.’

‘I am, it’s just a pity she’s dead!’

‘I’m used to that, aren’t I?’

She takes her arm from his and slaps his shoulder. ‘You nutter,’ she says, and starts to giggle. An older couple come to stand next to them. They turn from the painting to Gloria as she continues to laugh, and a small tut-tut can be heard as they focus on the canvas. Gloria looks at William and opens her eyes wide. Now she really can’t stop.

William doesn’t care about the couple. He doesn’t care about the security staff noticing them. He wants to run to the nearest phone box so he can tell Mr and Mrs Finch, I’ve made her laugh – she’s laughing!

‘What are you up to this morning, William?’ Mrs Finch politely asked when William joined them for breakfast that day.

‘I’m off to the Tate.’ He glanced at the piece of paper in Gloria’s hand, and the sight of the familiar slanted handwriting flung a pulse against his throat. ‘Everything all right?’

She exhaled then nodded. ‘At least now I’ve heard from him I can get on with forgetting him.’

‘Sooner the better,’ Mrs Finch said quietly.