MATILDA ARRIVED IN London in the early evening, taking a taxi to Chelsea. She put the window down so that she could hear and smell London, the roar of the traffic, heels clicking on pavements, engines revving as they waited for lights to change. The constant chat on the taxi radio, blare of musak from open shops, exclamations in foreign languages, people of many nations hurrying across before the lights changed. Just as she thought she could bear no more the taxi turned into John’s cul-de-sac on the border of Chelsea and Fulham.

John came out to meet her, paid the taxi, took her case, bent to kiss her.

‘Lovely to see you, Matty, absolutely great. Come in and have a drink.’ He was using a new shaving lotion she noticed and was glad. Up to now he had used the same as Tom. She wondered whether this was tact or chance. He led her into his sitting-room. ‘Sit down, Matty, you must be tired. What will you drink? Whisky? Vodka? Sherry? Gin? I’m drinking vodka, suits the weather. Vodka and tonic?’

‘Yes please.’ How like John to offer a choice but do the choosing.

‘You’ve altered the room.’ She accepted her vodka with a slice of lemon. He must have had that lemon sliced, she thought, doesn’t want it wasted.

‘Yes, do you like it? I’ve got this new sofa. I sold the old chairs. They fetched a very good price.’

‘They were a bit rickety.’ Matilda felt the need for assertion. This was London she had just sniffed, one must be sharp.

‘Yes, need a bit spending on them. They’ve gone to America.’

‘So much does.’

‘So much does, yes. I’ve changed the house round a bit, hope you will like it. I sleep at the back now. The spare room is at the front.’

‘Oh good, how clever of you. It must be almost like a new house.’ Matilda sipped. ‘What frightfully strong vodka. Might I have a little more tonic?’

John took her glass. There would be no memories of Tom in the new spare room, she thought, looking at John’s back, so young for his age, such a good figure. She knew he did exercises. John poured in a little tonic. He wondered how much she still grieved for Tom.

‘I thought we’d dine at home tonight and go out tomorrow, unless you have plans.’ He handed back her glass.

‘No plans. Dinner here will be lovely. I’d rather not be seen until I’ve had my hair done.’

‘You look very nice, as always.’

‘My hair looks like a chicken.’ She could not say “Polish Fowl” and, as she withheld it, wondered why not.

‘A ruffled hen.’ John smiled. Goodness! Matilda thought, he is bland.