And I did feel bad about her. When I thought of all the insults I had subjected her to over the years, when I thought of Monty Frankel and Peter Ustinov’s double, let alone Fitzpiers, I was shot through with guilt. I dreaded her asking me if I had any light to shed on Fitz’s continuing absence, but she never showed the slightest sign of concern. It was me finally, unable to bear the tension, who blundered into questions about his whereabouts, and it was Sharon who said, ‘Oh, he’ll be busy with his girlfriends at this time of the year. He’ll ring us when he feels like it.’ At which demonstration of her unsuspiciousness and easy nature I was prostrate with remorse.

I tried to mend my ways. I showered her with tenderness and solicitude. I let her talk to me about Thomas Hardy. I agreed that I might go back soon to Harry Vilbert to see if I could produce Hardy’s signature under hypnosis. It would increase the value of some of the volumes on her shelves no end, if they were signed by Thomas Hardy. And I even helped her out in the shop in the run up to Christmas, and once, in her hearing, recommended The Dynasts to a customer.

On Christmas morning I brought her champagne in bed and watched as she opened all the presents I had bought her. Normally, that is to say in the bad old days, when I had changed from the one who was all to her, I gave her scarlet nighties and sequinned underwear for Christmas, but this year my theme was demureness. I believed I had misused her body. Yes, she was my wife and my helpmeet, flesh of my flesh, but she was not mine to do with as I wished. Her body was the tabernacle of the Lord. I looked on, as she buttoned herself up in her new quilted bed-jacket, with watering eyes; and it might have been a time for the making of babies had the phone not then rung.

It was Rowland Fitzpiers. He had been playing Father Christmas all morning, he explained, distributing presents to the children of all his ex-girlfriends. It had been quite a morning. He had also been taking a celebratory brandy with all the ex-husbands of his ex-girlfriends. But that wasn’t the purpose of his call. ‘Do you remember our last conversation?’ he asked me. ‘The last thing you said to me, the last time I saw you? Well, I’ve been thinking it over…’

My heart crashed into my stomach like a meteor. I smelt sulphur. ‘Get round here right away,’ I told him, tasting lava.

Chapter VI

CHAPTER VI

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