So I sat there drinking my wine and feeling the tepid water leaking down upon my enthusiasms. Mrs Parish—‘June’ as I now call her—smiled and at one point even squeezed my shoulder as she passed me doing something or other, putting out cutlery. She is good to have in my life, I realise now. A modest and kind person. On a Friday, she picks Owen up from school and often has him the whole weekend. Sometimes I feel tempted to pack a little bag of my own and go off with the two of them. I want her to cook me a meal and read to me and put me to bed. However, I don’t think her husband is very good to her. Just a hunch, as the Americans say. I can see it in the way he talks to her—one suspects his disrespect (and he is disrespectful, as you will see below) is a manifestation of some kind of guilt.

Perhaps it was his disrespect, or perhaps it was his dismissal of Vellum Press, and by extension me, that made me behave so badly in his house.

Yes, I did, Tilde, abominably.

As I said, we were there for dinner. There was an absolute storm outside, but I’d got Owen off to sleep, and the fire was blazing and the house (finally—it is all sort of brick or tiled floor, freezing cold!) was warm and cosy. June had set the table with care. She has a set of lovely hand-printed linen napkins with floral designs. Her crockery is all glazed earthenware and she has lovely crystal wine glasses.Everything’s very expensive, I can tell. And well chosen. And the centrepiece of the table, an arrangement of native flowers and leaves in a tall rectangular vase. I saw all these details and they made me appreciate the attention she brings to everything she does. And I thought, Gosh, she must have inner resources that I know nothing about, a whole and complete inner life that only shows itself in these beautifully constructed details she creates about her.