“I’m making some coffee,” she said. “Would you like some? Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

She put the strap back. “Do I look very dissipated?”

“Fresh as the morning.”

“It is morning. But they’ll go on for hours yet.”

Jeff’s voice was whispering over the tape recorder. It carried farther than a shout would have done. Jean’s eyes dilated.

“He’s terrible,” she said. “She’s forty if she’s a day.”

“They don’t seem to be here any more.”

“She whisked him away an hour ago. She’s got a huge Amer­ican car with fins and a built-in cocktail bar and seats that let down into a double-bed – you know the kind of thing.”

“I can guess,” I said. “I can guess.” I began to stroke her arm. She drew in her breath sharply. “No,” she said. “Not here.”

The kitchen was very small and smelled of new paint and garlic. Above the electric oven was a tea towel with a recipe for Ratatouille Niçoise printed on it. There was a crate of empty beer bottles by the sink.

On an impulse I knelt down and kissed the hem of her skirt. The silk smelled faintly musty. The floor was stone: I felt its cold hardness through the carpeting. I put my arms round her waist and my head against her belly and stayed like that for a moment. She pressed my head closer to her. I shut my eyes.

There had been no impulse; this was Stage Two. If I kept my eyes shut, she could be someone else; but I had to look at her during the next stage. And the floor seemed to be growing harder and colder. I rose a little stiffly and kissed her on the mouth.

“You’re beautiful,” I said. “And kind. And good. And – tran­quil. Did you see me looking at you in church last Sunday?”

I loosened her shoulder straps; the dress stayed where it was.

She giggled. “They don’t hold anything up, silly.” I kissed her again, my hand stroking her neck. “You got in between me and my prayers,” I said. “I couldn’t think how to describe your face.” My hand left her neck. No, her face wasn’t kind. Or good. Or tranquil.

There had been a face in church last Sunday that had been all that, but this wasn’t the face. This was a lively face, a pretty face; it was full of good nature, it was healthy, it was normal, it would be agreeable to have it on the pillow beside one at waking; but it wasn’t the face I really had in mind.

“I saw you,” she said. “It was naughty of you. Susan—” I kissed her again to silence her; this was a no-man’s-land, Susan had ceased to exist.