She got up and went across to a very brightly polished steel table with a circular top of black glass. On it lay a small green suede handbag, the same color as her shoes. I thought—I really thought—she was fetching from it some proof of Angus Clarkson’s love, a letter maybe or just a photograph of the two of them together. She sat down again, opened the bag and began taking out £20 and £50 notes. The bag was stuffed full of money, probably several thousand pounds. She held out a fistful to me. I stared at the money, then at her, saying nothing, beginning to understand.

“Please take it. I want you to have it, Clodagh. Just think of it as a present to someone who I’m sure is in need of it from someone who—well, won’t notice the difference.”

I said slowly, “Why do you think I’m in need, Liv?” But I knew. My job, or what she thought was my job, was plebeian. My clothes, my hair that’s in need of cutting, my trainers and my ringless hands, all those things were a sign to her of my poverty. She could hardly know I’m always forgetting my wedding ring and leaving it behind on the bathroom sink. “Liv,” I said, “I’m not a blackmailer. Did you think I was?”

She shook her head vigorously. “You mustn’t think of it like that. Think of it as a present and then—and then—well, we can say goodbye to each other forever!”

“Suppose the dimmer switch goes wrong again?”

She looked so crestfallen, still holding out the money, that I began to laugh. I suppose I hoped that she’d join in, that she too would see what a fool she was being, but she didn’t. She got up, the bag fell on the floor and notes went everywhere. It reminded me of another time, only then it was the wind that blew money across the roofs and down into the street far below.

“Oh, dear. Oh, God. Clodagh, I was going to offer you a drink. At least a cup of coffee. Please stay. I can explain exactly what I mean if you’ll only give me a chance.”

“No, sorry, I’ve got to go,” I said. “Don’t worry”—Silver’s frequent words—“don’t worry, I won’t say a word to Mr. Clarkson.” Unable to resist it, I put my hand through that helmet of hair and ruffled it, saying as she flinched, “He’s a lucky chap.”