And in the middle of the night she picked up Alex’s books as if they were stepping stones across the darkness, frowning over Clifford Geertz and Alfred Gell, labouring to comprehend them, discipline her thoughts. She never usually read non-fiction; now she couldn’t bear novels, which were too much like life. This scaffolding of abstract thought at one remove from experience – describing it rather than enacting it – was a relief, lifted a burden from her. And she began to find her own thought leaping with genuine interest after the leaps of these clever, sympathetic writers; she lifted her head from the page to think, but not of her own life and crisis, or not directly. She copied certain sentences into her notebook. What revelation of the frameworks underpinning things! Then she wished Alex was with her – not for passion only, but also to question him on this new plane, about these new subjects. She had a fresh lucid vision of possibility for their companionship. Of course, Alex’s range was so much greater than hers, he had read everything, understood how it all fitted together. But still, she had her own quick perceptions, her logic and good memory. She had believed in the past that most of her inward intimations were incommunicable: Zachary had been afraid of her thinking too much, had only ever wanted to cherish her and cheer her up. Now for the first time she began to imagine sharing her ideas, even the dark ones. If only Alex would come back.

Christine heard someone unlocking the door to the flat and felt a surge of resentment, sure for a moment that it was Alex. Hadn’t she asked him to keep away? She was tidying her bedroom upstairs, sorting out drawers, throwing out a lot of stuff she hadn’t worn for years. Then she remembered that Alex didn’t have the new keys to the flat. It was Isobel who waited for her in the front room, standing in the sunshine, looking out of the window into the street. — Why aren’t you at work, darling? Christine asked anxiously. — How lovely to see you!

— Sorry Mum, I’ve interrupted you. Were you painting?

— Don’t be silly, I don’t mind. Are you all right?

Isobel said she’d taken the day off, she was feeling a bit under the weather, that was all, she was fine – and didn’t want coffee, only a glass of water. She was looking around her at the rearranged room with its new paint and cushions. — It’s all lovely in here now, isn’t it?