Once, a little while after the auditions, he had come to find her in her room. He had leaned against the door, smiling down at her, and from the brightness and distance in his eyes, she guessed that he had been taking drugs again. But it was unthinkable to resist when he reached for her, and pulled her down beside him on the narrow little bed.

Blindly, she pressed against him, thinking here, now, he’s with you. Nothing else matters.

Afterwards, when he lay in her arms and she was secure in his warmth, Helen studied the curves and angles of his face. She thought she saw in them the gentleness of the other Oliver, the half of himself he must feel compelled to hide for some reason that she didn’t understand.

Oliver had drifted off to sleep and Helen had gone on lying beside him, her mouth against his hair, lost in the pleasure of possession.

When he woke up again, he seemed to be listening for something in the quiet of the house.

Then he rolled away from her, his lazy, assured manner making her doubt the existence of another Oliver after all. When he was dressed he had refused her offer of a cup of tea, kissed her briefly, and gone away.

Helen had quickly learned to accept that.

He came and went as he wanted, and up until now she had seized gratefully and unquestioningly on the few times that they were together without asking for anything more.

It occurred to her that she wouldn’t have known what else to ask for, anyway.

Helen frowned. Up until the last few days, that was how it had been. But this afternoon was different. She was not simply numbed by his presence, she was hurt by it. She hadn’t seen Oliver for four days, and her need for him was growing acute. Part of the grey afternoon’s discomfort was the way her body ached for him. I was so self-controlled once, Helen remembered. Is this what sex is like for everyone? So potent as to rub out everything else, and so bitterly painful when it isn’t gratified?

The other sensation that troubled her was a dull sense of foreboding. The room was heavy with it and for a moment Helen imagined that the clouds outside the window bulged with it. Then she rejected the fancifulness of the idea with irritation. The rational Helen whose voice was still sometimes just audible told her that she was being a fool, and that she should go back to her work and forget Oliver until he appeared again. But the emotional Helen who ruled so capriciously now knew that she couldn’t do that.

She was sunk in irritable apathy, hurt and impatient and powerless to do anything. The solitude and silence pressed around her, almost tangible.