She was standing close behind me. Short, very thin, thin as a plucked wren. Her hair was just dun coloured, cut in a fringe, held by a fillet, or an Alice band as we had known them. She had thick rimless glasses, wore a grey tracksuit and scuffed sneakers. A large metal watch hung on one wrist, the other carried a clatter of varicoloured plastic bangles. Wide, like Nancy Cunard. She rattled them at me, shook them in the air and let them clatter down her skinny arm to a knobbled elbow, thrust out her hand. She was in her late forties perhaps.

‘Welcome! I should have said that before, shouldn’t I? But that view always gets to me. And I forget. I could see it had got to you too.’

‘Yes. It’s got to me.’

‘Well, that’s exactly why I didn’t say, right away, welcome! like I should. But anyway, welcome. I’m Mrs Millar. I’m your hostess and you are a Mr Caldicott. Right? That’s what I was told anyway. And you have come to visit with my husband. Is that all correct? I do hope it is. I get so muddled. It’s new. Being muddled. I used to be very …’ She looked round her vaguely as if she had lost a dog or a cat somewhere. ‘I don’t remember. Unmuddled. But my sister-in-law just buzzed through and said you were on your way up. And you were. And here you are! And so … well, welcome!’

We shook hands solemnly. I had been holding her thin hand in mine like a closed fan for all this time.

‘I’m William Caldicott. You got that right. And I am amazed by the view.’

‘Oh! That’s great! It is nice to see you. Do you write?’

‘I do. Yes.’

‘Books? Or just for newspapers. I mean a journalist? But that’s silly of me because if you were a journalist you would not be standing on this terrace. Not at all. Oh dear no. So it’s books?’

‘It’s books. Yes.’

She adjusted the Alice band, her bangles clattering with her nerves. ‘My husband is very famous. Did you know that? He’s more famous in America than in England. But he’s famous anyway. Do you know his book on Catullus? You know that? They made a huge movie from it, it was huge because it was a huge book. But they screwed it up.’ She laughed, looked at her watch. ‘It was a huge book, you see. I know. I typed it. Goodness me, yes.’

‘I know your husband. I mean I know his work. I hope that I’m not late for him? I was told six-thirty.’

Mrs Millar shook her head worriedly. ‘No. You aren’t late. They’ll buzz – or come when he has finished. Proofs. You know about proofs?’

‘I do indeed.’