Sleep did not come easily. She listened to John moving about downstairs, locking and double-locking the front door, bolting the windows. If there were a fire, she thought, we’d never get out. The key lay heavy between her breasts. Hearing John’s footsteps on the stairs, she held it tight in her hand.

‘You all right, old girl? Got everything you want?’ he called from the landing.

‘Yes, thank you. Lovely new duvet.’

‘Harrods. Sleep well.’

‘Thanks, same to you.’ She turned on her side, away from the window, disturbed by the light from the street lamp. For what seemed hours she lay wakeful, worrying. Would Hugh be careful – keep out of sight? Would Gus be safe? The dog? Had she forgotten anything? The unaccustomed rich food was taking its time settling in her stomach. She got up and tiptoed to the window. It only opened a little way, not enough for even a thin burglar to climb through. She knelt down and breathed the street air, listening to the roar of the city which never quietened.

In childhood she had listened from her grandparents’ house, heard trains shrieking in the distance, tugs tooting on the river, taxi doors slamming, the creak of cowls on chimney pots as they whirled in the wind, turning this way and that like the heads of armoured knights. The Clean Air Act had put paid to them. She remembered, too, how once when she was very small she had heard sheep and seen a flock driven through her grandparents’ square to Hyde Park. She wanted to remember that dawn, was comforted that she did. I will get his money tomorrow, she thought, and then forget all about him while I am here. She fell asleep, holding the latchkey in her hand, her mouth open, snoring.

Across the landing John, roused by his bladder, stood in his bathroom. He thought crossly that in youth he would have lasted the night. Then he cocked his head. God almighty, how she snores. Nothing wrong with my hearing anyway. How could Tom have put up with it all those years? A bit uppity calling him ‘Johnnie’. Menopausal cheek, must make allowances. She’d seemed a bit edgy somehow, something on her mind. Probably still missing Tom. It had been a pity, that heart attack.

17

IN THE MORNING Matilda sat in bed eating breakfast brought up by John’s housekeeper. Mrs Green was a woman who while modern in appearance could create a Mrs Tiggywinkle atmosphere if she so wished. The tray placed across Matilda’s knees held coffee, boiled eggs, toast, butter, marmalade and a linen napkin.

‘It’s lovely to see you. It’s ages, isn’t it? You are spoiling me.’

‘Far too long, Madam.’ Matilda knew well that the ‘Madam’ bit was a joke, that she was referred to by her Christian name behind her back.

‘This is delicious. Dinner last night was a dream.’