I looked away from her. “She’s dead. It’s over and done with.”

“I wonder,” she said quietly.

“It was before we were married. It wouldn’t have happened if George had treated Alice properly. And I was young and stupid and Alice was ten years older . . .” My voice trailed away.

“Yes, blame her. And blame her for killing herself when you threw her over. You might as well.”

Suddenly I wanted to hit her. “Shut up! Shut your bloody mouth! What the hell are you trying to do, you crazy bitch?”

Part of my anger was with myself. I was blaming Alice, I was casting myself in the part of the innocent young man led away by the older woman. It would have been better if I hadn’t tried to justify myself; I was betraying Alice in doing so.

Susan laughed. It wasn’t a real laugh but a harsh and forced one, a gesture of contempt. “That gets you on the raw, doesn’t it? You still don’t like to think about it, do you, Joe?”

I sat down on the bed. If only Susan weren’t here, I thought, I’d like to lie down and go to sleep. I’d look at the primrose and grey wallpaper and the gleaming white paintwork and think about nothing at all. I closed my eyes.

“Joe, do you hear me?”

“No,” I said. “I’m not listening any more.” I stood up. “I need a drink.”

“You’ve gone away, haven’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Suddenly you go away. You’re not thinking of me, you’re not thinking of anyone.” She unstoppered a scent bottle. It was a kind she’d not used before, heavy and rather too sweet, a chorus girl’s perfume. But briefly, perhaps because of its unfamiliarity, I saw her as an attractive young woman in a black slip, an un­dressed stranger.

“I get tired,” I said. I picked up the scent bottle. “This is new.”

She snatched the bottle from me. “I thought I’d try it.”

“That’s right,” I said. “You only live once.” I looked over her shoulder. “They really are pretty,” I said. “Why can’t you go to the dance like that?”

She put her hands over her breasts.

“Don’t stare,” she said. “Go and mix me a drink. A nice dry Martini.”

“I’ll just say vermouth to the gin,” I said.

“That’s my Joe.” She dabbed the perfume behind her ears. “I’m sorry for being so bad-tempered.”

“Forget it,” I said. “Life’s too short.”

“I’m a possessive jealous bitch,” she said.

She sniffed at the scent, then put back the stopper. “It really is rather tarty,” she said.

I pulled out my wallet. “Five pounds for all night, miss?”

“Wicked!” she said.