‘Not since?’

‘I thought it might be better if I kept away. She looked so ill. She barely responded to me at all.’

‘If she stays in there much longer I’m not sure she’ll be able to tolerate it.’

Elizabeth raised her eyes with a closed, defensive expression. ‘Surely you’re exaggerating?’

‘Do you know about the treatment they’re giving her?’ I experienced my habitual feeling with Elizabeth of wanting to go and shake her with enormous force. I didn’t know whether electric shock treatment was effective or not, but something in my very being revolted at the idea of it. ‘What are you doing to get her out of there?’

Her voice was strained thin as broth. ‘I’ve asked him – I’ve begged him. I don’t know what else to do. He says we have to wait for them to make her better.’

‘Is Tuesday the only night he always goes out?’

She made as if to think about it, smoothing her hand round the pleat of her hair. ‘He does have a regular social arrangement on a Tuesday. They meet for a drink – business, you know.’

‘Oh yes?’ I kept my voice neutral.

Elizabeth looked at me very directly. ‘Yes. It’s been a long-standing arrangement.’

‘Hasn’t it just?’

Without changing her expression, she said, ‘Please leave my house.’

‘I thought you wanted my help.’

Abruptly she turned her back to me and leaned on the mantelpiece in a cringing pose. ‘I don’t want it at the expense of . . . of everything else.’

I was silent for a moment. ‘You know just where he goes most Tuesdays, don’t you?’

She lowered her head as if I was whipping her. When she spoke I heard the break in her voice. ‘He is whatever I have made him.’

When I got home that evening I felt weighed down and filled with a kind of disgust at myself. Everything felt so strange, at odds. Even this house of mine would not be so for much longer. In each room there were packing cases, some already full for our move in a few days’ time.

Douglas was out, working as usual. I sat for a long time in front of my dressing table, staring at my face.

I had felt like a torturer with Elizabeth Kemp. I remembered how I used to stare so often at my reflection, wishing I looked different; like Olivia. My face was thin now, severe, with my hair pinned up at the back, my oval, steel-rimmed specs. As a girl I had looked so much sweeter. Then I had dreamed of Alec Kemp, kissed my reflection in the glass, fancying it was him. I had wanted to look beautiful and alluring. I gave myself an ironic smile. Twenty years on, nearly, and I was still being goaded by the thought of Alec Kemp. Except that now my pursuit was driven by revenge; for Olivia but also – though I could barely admit it – for myself, for the bitter person I felt that night.