In his room John read for a while, checked that his revolver was correctly placed before turning off the bedside lamp. He lay smiling. Matilda was splendidly naïve. He thought and wondered, without being more than mildly amused, what sort of fellow she was shacked up with and why she should be toting his shoes around in a carrier bag. Larger feet than Tom’s, not Mark’s or Claud’s style. It was probably somebody quite unpresentable. He switched his mind to his trip to Prague. There were various conundrums which might be clearer after a night’s sleep. It was aggravating that he had to do so many little jobs himself. Tom Poliport had proved irreplaceable, small cog though he had been.

Restless and unable to sleep, Matilda remembered Hugh’s shoes. She had left the carrier bag in the hall. My Christ! What stupidity, she thought, tiptoeing down to fetch them. What a daft thing to do, though Mrs Green would not be in until morning.

18

MATILDA WAS IN good spirits at breakfast. John put his head round the door.

‘Dinner tonight?’

‘Yes, looking forward to it, Piers.’

‘What are you doing today?’

‘Lunching with Lalage. Some shopping. We won’t lunch till late, knowing her.’

‘Give her my regards.’

‘I will.’

Later she set off, taking a quick look round Habitat and Peter Jones before taking a bus to Piccadilly. She crossed the street, looked in at Hatchard’s on her way to what Tom called ‘St Fortnum’s, Piccadilly’. They had bought one another presents there when courting but today the memory did not bother her. She had discarded yesterday’s high-heeled shoes and strode along in espadrilles. She bought a paté for Claud, arranging to have it sent to his New York apartment. The salesman gave her a card on which she wrote: Eat this in memory of me. Mama. He would eat it with his lover if it had not gone bad, which she rather hoped it would. She paid by cheque.

A short step into Jermyn Street, The careful choosing of a shirt for Louise at Turnbull and Asser. Louise would prefer something else and lend it to her husband whose colouring would be better suited to the shirt than Louise’s. Matilda knew Louise would wonder whether her mother had chosen the shirt with this in view and tell herself her mother was not sophisticated enough to do anything so mean. She paid by cheque and had it sent to Paris.

She walked briskly to Liberty’s where she chose two scarves for Anabel to match her most frequent moods, lust and satiation. Anabel would know what was meant. Here too she paid by cheque. A taxi to Foyle’s where she bought the latest Russian poet in translation who had defected to the West and had it sent to Mark who would put it on his coffee table. She paid by cheque.