I left the party as soon as I could. Max encouraged my departure with an approving “An essay to write,” but Selina, catching up with me at the head of the stairs, said that I couldn’t be expected to know, doubtless I’d never been taught, but it really wasn’t done to leave a party given in one’s honor until everyone else had left. Now why hadn’t my etiquette-conscious mother taught me that?

I went down the stairs, put the smoked salmon parcel on Mabel’s plate and gave the wardrobe a push to set the hangers ringing. I was getting to like their music, the sound of jangling chimes.

Chapter 7

7

I SAW LITTLE OF Max or Selina for a long time after that party. Living below ground, you see no comings and goings of the occupants of upper floors. The taxi that comes for them, the postman with a parcel they open the door to, their departure on foot, the van bringing the wine or food delivery, all this is as hidden from you as if it were happening a mile away. They may have forgotten my existence, for I made no noise. Something was wrong with the volume control on the television set and I could never make voices rise above a whisper. I had no friends arriving in the evening and leaving late at night. I had no friends. Instead of going upstairs to the yellow drawing room, I began making my weekly phone call to my mother from a call box. After some initial grumbling, she let me reverse the charges.

Days passed when I spoke to no one but Mabel and old Mrs. Fisherton. No one came and no one phoned. Well, they couldn’t, I had no phone. I’m not being self-pitying. I know it was my own fault. It was just an extension of the way I had been since Daniel died, reclusive, shut in, hiding away from everything and everyone. In those long months there had only been one person who tried hard enough to reach me and persisted in breaking through the barriers I had put up: Guy Wharton. I had never answered his letter. I had called my mother from a call box but I had never called him. Most women would have said I was crazy. Mum certainly would have. Guy was rich, good-looking if you like that stocky dark type, clever and with the kind of job mothers of girls love, something important in a merchant bank. While I was at home for Christmas, he too was at home on the other side of the river. He phoned and asked if he could come over to see me. I didn’t want to talk to him but Mum refused to lie for me, so I took the receiver from her with very bad grace and said I had a bad cold, I couldn’t see anyone.