Despite the intense silence and the therapeutic associations of this deeply enclosed, studied and controlled space, not to mention what should have been the calming effects of the bourbon, his mind was still racing, and still disintegrating under the pressure of cumulative sleep-privation. If only Lucy were waiting for him next door, curled up naked in his bed, perhaps he would have found some peace. As well as feeling strongly attracted to her, and being impressed from the start by her agile and forceful mind, since their confusingly sincere dinner on his return visit to London the other day, when his combative personality had fallen away, without any forethought, and she had opened up to him, without making too much of it, about her fucked-up background, he found himself wanting to look after her as well. Her particular combination of strength and fragility had elicited a sense of tenderness he hadn’t even known he could feel. More strength might have aroused his competitiveness and more fragility would have bored him. He normally delegated his somewhat vague feelings of compassion to his chequebook, but this new feeling seemed to have taken up a stubborn residence in his heart and somehow, by making room for the idea that he might look after her, he had created the longing for her to look after him right now – while he was at his most fragile. Why wasn’t she here? He was going to die if he didn’t have her – although, to be fair, he was going to die even if he did have her.