That spring, I gave my Sabine-style clothes away to charity. I took to wearing cheap combat trousers and tank tops. My sole accessory was the sard ring that I’d bought on Portobello Road. Apparently sard came from volcanic rock and was used to deflect bad spells. As for my more abstract amulets against Sabine, I was almost disconcerted at how little I needed them.

A major contributing factor was the retired artist. She was nonconformist, empathetic, and politicized. I wasn’t sexually attracted to her, but I respected her. I didn’t want to be her; I wanted to learn from her. Observing how she lived in the day-to-day, I saw, close up, the workings of an intellectual life. In our conversations, I hung on to what she said. I wanted to be someone she’d respect too.

The only regression of those first months was a dream I had in which Sabine was drowning. We were out on open water. I was on a raft but a powerful current was separating us. Though I had an oar, I wasn’t using it; I was watching her but somehow not moving. When I awoke, I was overcome by cold waves of sorrow and guilt. But as consciousness returned, I became angry with myself. Why was I feeling bad? In life, I’d been the one drowning.

When the artist noticed my blues the next day, I gave her an account of Sabine so reduced as to be barely true—though her response was profoundly useful. She described an experiment where rats were given a pedal to press for a reward. Half were rewarded logically, the other half randomly. Over time, the logical group continued to be logical whereas the random group lost all control; crazed, they pressed the pedal increasingly feverishly in hope of reward.

While the rat aspect was only one part of my relationship with Sabine, it helped with my resolve. I needed a clean break; any leniency would suck me back into our game. Over Christmas I’d sunk as low as I could go. For survival’s sake, I couldn’t afford to be drawn into Sabine’s orbit again.

In mid-April, the magnolia tree outside the second-hand bookshop was coming into bloom. The leaves were light green furls, the yellow flowers startling against the charcoal branches. One afternoon as I arranged a couple of cuttings in a flame-red vase, my phone buzzed with a text. It was written in Sabine’s usual style, as if nothing had changed: want to meet at the pig and hen tomorrow at six. Compulsively, my fingers itched to type yes—but I resisted.