But in the summer night the spell of her expectation was too strong. She lost herself inside short passages of her novel, then couldn’t proceed because they affected her too much – she dropped the book and looked about her restlessly, filled up her glass again. It was only once midnight had come and gone that panic lifted up in Christine’s chest like a great bird, between one moment of its not occurring to her to worry, and the next when she was certain something must have happened. He’d said he might be home by ten o’clock, hadn’t he? No doubt the traffic was bad. And he wouldn’t have called to let her know because Alex never used his phone while he was driving – also, he despised that whole infantile obsession with calling, needing to be in touch at every moment. Yet her imagination, working outside her control, began to conjure disasters that were more awful for being indefinite. The poised perfection of her scene was spoiled, a mockery: and yet she couldn’t possibly go to bed, sleeplessness there would be worse. Anyway he would surely arrive any minute, and there wouldn’t have been anything to be afraid of after all. When he did arrive she would never forgive him, she thought, for putting her through this.

In interludes of respite she forced her awareness down into her novel, then awoke from its dream in palpitations of dread. She hadn’t eaten anything since cake at lunchtime, she’d waited to have something with Alex, so the white wine she’d been drinking had given her a headache. There was nothing to think about except the worst. For a long time she wouldn’t let herself call his phone, then she tried it, and found it was switched off. Her helpless fear was a paralysis, hollowing her out, and yet was probably absurd: she kept hearing a car whose drone seemed familiar, which then droned past. Or a car would park in the street outside, a car door slam, her heart would lift in a paroxysm of relief – but Alex didn’t come. She thought of calling Grace, to make sure he’d left when he said he would. But wouldn’t that be unforgivable, burdening the poor burdened girl with her stupid worry? There was no point in frightening Isobel either. This madness of anxiety was her own to bear; and at any moment Alex would turn up, it would have all been for nothing. She remembered Mary Shelley going from house to house, the night Shelley went missing on the lake. Ha visto Shelley?