Harry. Poor Harry. Estelle emails her with accounts of his progress. She loves him. She loves him more than I do. So much so that she imagines he can speak. After the stroke Fleur tried to look after him, but she found it very difficult. The essence of Harry had gone. Harry looked like his old self, but he had become another person. Angry, supercilious and impatient. He seemed to hate her and she couldn’t bear that. His voice, insofar as she could understand it at all, belonged to someone else who was inhabiting his body. She finds it deeply disturbing and frightening even now. She hated trying to feed him. Estelle doesn’t mind feeding him. She seems to think it is her job rather than the nurses’ to wipe his face, as if he notices or appreciates this intimacy. Maybe Estelle has always longed to touch him, and now she is licensed to handle him the way a French housewife handles fruits in the market. After Easter she will go to see him. He’s deteriorating. She wonders what life without him will be. She walks down the length of the library, built on the other side of the garden in what was the stable block. She hasn’t been in here for months. All these books, all these unread books, full of useless knowledge, written by know-alls, busybodies, self-important pedants.

At stage school the official philosophy, the mission statement, was Live the dream, which was believed to take care of the whole range of human aspiration. Live the dream. She’s not equipped for life as a forty-three-year-old widow who is having sex with her personal trainer. She runs her hand over the skin of the books. The covers are dimpled or as smooth as marble or as textured as cowhide or as soft as chamois leather. Harry said he liked the smell and feel and the bindings of books. She picks one out and opens it – it’s a series of botanical plates, the flowering trees of Australasia. She puts her face in it and inhales, hoping to capture some lost essence of Harry. What she smells is a deep, endless and impenetrable tedium. She scents the grave. And in this way, she is truly capturing the essence of Harry: nullity.

Panicky, she rings Kimberly.

‘Hiya.’

‘Hi, Kim, can we have supper? I know Jules is away somewhere?’

‘Antibes. Seeing the old guy. Sure, I would love to do supper. You want to come to our place and we go out after?’

‘That would be good. Can you book somewhere?’

‘Sure. How areya, honey? It will be great to seeya.’

Kimberly speaks in that way young American women have, perky and direct, as though the world is new and exciting. London hasn’t got her down one bit in eight years.

‘I’m fine, Kim. I worry a lot, but who doesn’t?’

‘Any sign of improvement in Harry?’

She says improve-mint.