I stopped and listened. I couldn’t hear a sound except, somewhere beyond the buildings, the creak, creak of a pushchair. And when I looked down at my hands, there was nothing in them.

When I woke I thought: Edward and Victoria. They were such quaint, old-fashioned names for a liberated woman—why had their mother chosen them? Her children weren’t growing up amongst crinolines, it was all AIDS now, and rubbish in the hedges. My coach tours didn’t take the rubbish routes, we took the scenic ones, but you couldn’t fool me anymore.

My mouth was dry and I felt irritable. Stupid woman. One father didn’t exist and the other one, Barry, sounded randy as a tomcat—some father he made. Did she really think that their Christian names would keep her children safe?

To my surprise, it was 10.30 at night. I had cramp in my left shin. I needed to meet a human being and see if I could still behave normally; I felt I’d been alone for days.

I climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine. I pushed in Ricky Nelson. But the tape burbled and his voice slurred. Hello, Mary Lou … He sounded as if he was sinking into a tub of glue. Goodbye, heart … He choked to a stop, and when I tried to pull the tape out it had caught in the machine. I left it dangling. It swung, as I pulled into the fog.

I drove on until a sign loomed up, indicating Peterborough. I hadn’t come very far at all.

I sat in an Indian restaurant in Peterborough, it was called Curry Paradise. I watched a couple fondling each other. She was bigger than him and rested her cheek on top of his head; she adjusted her position as his hand slid up her thigh—I could tell he was doing this because he had a smug look. Sitar music played; the place was almost empty and as red as a womb. However much I ate there was still mounds of stuff in my dishes.

The woman giggled; the man nuzzled her neck. I’d had trouble making myself understood to the waiter; either I wasn’t speaking clearly or he didn’t understand English. I had half a lager instead of a pint, and a dish of something I hadn’t ordered; it looked like dung and was sunk in transparent yellow oil.

When I couldn’t stand it anymore I stood up, went to the phone and dialled my number. I was going to tell her to get a move on with selling the house. Or, I just wanted to hear her voice. Or, I felt like getting her out of bed and making him annoyed. Or, I don’t know.