We sat together in the conservatory among the plants and in the last of the evening sun. And we just talked. Florence was strangely calm. She too had changed quickly, combed her hair; there was no suggestion of stress or anxiety. She explained very easily, as if she were discussing a complicated stitch in tapestry work, why she and James had not, in fact, married. He was unsure of himself. His past life could, he told her, return. She must help him fight back to total normalcy, and with her help he’d win out. That was his reason anyway, and she appeared to accept it.

For a virginal, doomed-to-be-a-spinster young woman, she had made amazing steps in coming to terms with the problem. But, as she said, she was totally bewitched, completely in love, certain that with love, understanding, care and patience she would succeed. The cocaine had frankly worried her more. It was costly as well as dangerous, and he felt, at first, that he could only ‘see’ how to paint if he had had a sniff or two. Colours were brighter, patterns swirled into shape, the structure of his work was more easily defined. But, gradually, he came off the stuff. Money dictated that. Or lack of money. And, Florence was certain, he was not ‘addicted’. He took it for the stimulation of his painter’s imagination. Anyway, she believed that. And if he said so it was so.

She was a little uneasy about Aronovich. He very occasionally came to Jericho on his way, she presumed, to stay up at L’Hermitage. He was pleasant, in his late fifties, helpful with James’s painting, and had commissioned a collection for his new hotel. This we knew. The call at the weekend signified that the hotel was ready, or soon would be ready, to accept the works. He had, after all, already paid for them. A large sum which had helped them greatly. Five thousand dollars.

It was about this time, when we had been discussing the paintings and Aronovich, that Annette came in bearing a tray of glasses and a plate of biscuits with a small jar of pâté and some olives. She set these down and went away. The goldfish drifted about aimlessly. For a moment we just sat in silence, a silence broken only by the hum of the oxygenator in the aquarium. So still were we that it sounded like a vacuum cleaner and made us suddenly, idiotically, shy. Florence laughed, rubbed her nose.

‘So much more to discuss. I don’t know what to ask next. Do you?’

I confessed that I’d be better with a little nourishment at the same moment that Annette returned with four tins of beer and a can of orange juice. She put these down, stood for a moment looking about her, turned and, just as she was about to leave, suddenly stopped and patted my cheek. Blushed, hurried out.