The weeping man in her arms was not the dictatorial and steely Tom Hart of the Playhouse, nor the ironically smiling and impervious man who had angered and unconsciously attracted her all through the Follies year. Magically he had become the equal and exact counterpart that she longed for, but she saw that he was as vulnerable, and as needy too, as she was herself. He was a whole, round person, grief-stricken now but still strong, and so alive that she wanted to seize him, and hold him, and absorb the warmth and solidity of him into herself. He was the man she loved.

‘I love you,’ she whispered. ‘I love you more than all the world.’

The crying had stopped. His wet face lay against hers and his fingers fluttered over her skin, and then his hands closed over her breasts. The length of his body tensed and hardened, and he came to her again.

The performance was forgotten now. He arched into her, and moaned, lost within himself, and she rocked him in her arms and rejoiced in the oblivion he had found.

Too soon Tom cried out again, utterly defenceless, and fell blindly against her. The thin, cold sheet had all dissolved away. They were at one, and they had found their own peace at the year’s end.

‘I’m sorry,’ Tom said. His voice was hoarse, but there was the faint lift of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

‘Don’t be. I liked that much better.’

‘Perverse girl. After all my efforts.’

Smiling, they locked their arms around each other. The white curtain blew gently at the window, and they drifted into untroubled sleep.

When they woke up the light had softened to the soft, pale grey of evening. It was delicious, cool and sweet-smelling. It must have rained while they were asleep. Helen heard the high, sharp peet of swallows dipping over grass somewhere nearby.

Tom stirred, smiling, and reached out for her.

‘Again?’ She smiled at him, pretending prim surprise.

‘Why ever not? You might as well know that I shall be an intensely demanding husband.’

Laughing, Helen spread her fingers over his mouth.

‘Who said anything about marriage?’

‘I gave you my favourite picture, didn’t I? Marrying you is the only way I can think of to get it back.’

‘Oh well, in that case …’

Tom rolled her over in his arms and they retreated into the intricate labyrinths of their new-found world.

Afterwards, Helen stood dreamily at the long window, wrapped in Tom’s bathrobe. It smelt of him and she stretched luxuriously, glowing with the happiness that seemed so strong around her that she felt she could touch it. Behind her Tom lay propped up on one elbow, watching her half-turned profile.

The moment was so perfect that fear touched her.

‘You won’t go away, will you?’ she whispered.

‘Never.’

Helen turned back from the window and sat down beside him.