She had remained in Switzerland for ten days and on her return had come immediately to tell Marianne that the deed was done and she felt fine. Physically, perhaps. But for how long would she wear the air of bravado which only Marianne knew was a mask? Time was a faster healer for some than for others.

A breezily worded postcard from the girl who had confided in her arrived with Marianne’s mail on one of the wet August mornings that characterized the summer of 1988 as it had last year.

Rain, rain, rain! And no further word from Simon Newman since he sent that one-sentence reminder of his existence. Unfortunately for Marianne, she needed no reminding.

An hour later, while she was reading the proofs of a novel to be published later in the year – and cursing the printer for playing games with her prose – the doorbell rang and she included in the cursing whoever was interrupting the most tedious and exasperating task required of an author.

When she opened the door sarcasm leapt to her tongue. ‘The ghost writer again appears in the flesh. Well, well!’ A gust of anger impelled her to add, ‘Where the hell have you been and what have you been doing?’

‘Thinking of you from afar. The rest is a long story and I’d rather not tell it standing on your doorstep.’

‘Then you had better come in, and while you’re here you can listen to a few things I have to say to you.’

‘How is Matthew?’ Simon inquired following her to the living room.

‘He’s been in and out of hospital several times since the crisis that brought about our crisis. Right now he’s home again. Thank you for asking,’ Marianne replied tersely.

They sat down opposite each other, Marianne on the sofa and Simon in the armchair that once was Ralph’s. Marianne felt like telling him to get up and sit somewhere else. He had almost succeeded in inserting himself into the place Ralph had occupied in her life – but not quite! And assumed that all he need now do was make excuses for his lengthy absence and she would accept them like the gullible female he evidently thought her.

‘Kindly get on with it,’ she said to him. ‘I have to finish proofreading my new novel.’

‘With a bit of luck, this time next year I might be reading the proofs of my first,’ Simon replied. ‘You asked what I’ve been doing since we last saw each other, and now you know.’

Marianne was astounded.

Simon smiled at her expression. ‘If you thought me holed up with a broad, I have to tell you it was with a typewriter, working on a first draft I’ve since sent to my agent that he thinks is promising.’

She could not but congratulate him. Nor was it false, she really was pleased for him.