Gosh, she thought, I’m never going to sleep. She put on her dressing-gown, put out the light, opened the window and leant out. Somewhere in London lovely Anabel lay in that man’s arms. I envy her. I hope he will not hurt her. It will make her take it out on someone else, some white dolt. Anabel, so self-assured, no great animal lover she. Matilda remembered Anabel drowning a rabbit in a bucket. Bloody child. In a way she was like Tom. This unforeseen thought caused Matilda to weep. She walked up and down the room weeping. ‘Tom, Tom, oh poor Tom, did I love you?’

Matilda felt so uncertain she became distraught. I must walk, she thought, putting on her slippers. She wrapped the dressing-gown round her, took her latchkey, tiptoed downstairs, letting herself out into the street.

Roused by the slight sound, John looked out onto the landing, wondering what the hell Matilda was doing now.

‘What on earth is going on? he called querulously.

‘I’m going for a fucking walk.’ Matilda slammed the street door.

‘If anyone behaved like that to me.’ Matilda said aloud in the empty street, ‘I’d never have them in my house again.’ She walked weeping along the pavements, composing nice things she should have said to Anabel, clever intelligent things she could have said to the beautiful black man. Aron – a splendid name – balanced, biblical, dignified. My word, she thought, he was sexy, no wonder Anabel – do hope she enjoys it, lucky girl.

She walked briskly, passing the Royal Hospital, far from John’s house. The Alka-Seltzer was working. She turned left through Burton Court, into Smith Street, along the King’s Road. A middle-aged widow, she saw herself walking down the King’s Road in her dressing-gown, sober now. It was a pity that she liked animals best, but there it was. At some moment, she could not remember when, she had nearly loved human beings. It must have been a moment of passion. Passion was something so tremendously rare. Animals were better, safer, Now she was nearly back at the cul-de-sac. The latchkey? She had it in her hand. I couldn’t bear to wake him again, she thought, letting herself in quietly. He may have owned Tom but he doesn’t own me. She shut the door and crept up to bed.

22

IN THE TRAIN Matilda leafed through Harper’s, a luxury bought for her by John with The Times and the Guardian. He had found her a seat, kissed her goodbye and left before the train started, putting her out of his mind before he reached his car.

Matilda, too, had forgotten John, it dawning on her that for four days in London she had not listened to the news or read a paper. This had happened to her before. Usually she found she had missed nothing and what news there was was fresh and interesting.