It was so bad that I actually woke up screaming. I rolled over and unzipped myself and stumbled into the kitchen. I poured myself a glass of water and took it outside to drink. Although it was very late in the summer the weather was still gentle. The night still had some light left in it too. I breathed in the warm air that was blowing off the Atlantic. While I was out there I noticed that Camilla’s light was on – the light from the room we used to call ours. She must have come back while I was dreaming my vile dream and quietly stepped over me. I didn’t stop to think what I was doing. I simply ran back inside and tore up the stairs and pushed my way into her room – our room.

She was sitting on the bed looking terribly weary. Her hair was drawn back austerely and tied at the back, like a tragic Swede’s. That was how she mainly wore it now. She might have been laughing piratically, like her old self, in every pub in Castle Boterel, but that didn’t mean she was happy. But I wasn’t in any position to pass comment. She didn’t seem particularly surprised to see me, which was in itself surprising considering that I hadn’t been in the upper half of the cottage for months. She noticed that I was under strain though.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ she asked. ‘You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.’

‘Worse than that,’ I said, ‘I’ve just been a ghost.’

I would have liked it if she’d shown a bit of interest. Or invited me to sit on the bed. Or cradled my troubled head in her arms. But she did none of these things. All she did was light herself a cigarette.

‘I’ve been at Max Gate,’ I said. ‘I’ve spent the entire evening standing next to Florence Hardy. It was horrible. Nobody would talk to me or give me any tea. Not even a cake. He seemed to be the only one who knew I was there. He just kept staring at me. And he seemed to be able to move me with his eyes. But only in one direction – closer and closer to Florence. It was unimaginably vile. I could smell her clothes and her hair. An odour of misery and deprivation rose from her. I felt that if I’d put my arms around her her bones would give – not crack, just subside. And all the while I was being impelled closer, closer. Camilla, I want you to tell me – what am I doing dreaming such shit?’

Camilla puffed at her cigarette and looked up at me. ‘I suppose it’s an advance,’ she said, ‘imagining that you’re someone else’s imaginary rival.’

I waited for what else she had to say but there wasn’t anything. ‘Is that it?’

She shrugged.