But the imputation did not appear to hurt Fitzpiers. On the contrary, it seemed I was only furthering his case. ‘Marx too,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders and pulling a funny face – he didn’t want to be blatant but there was no getting away from it – ‘Marx too, though he wasn’t exactly a fiction writer, could be classed as –’

‘Oh come on,’ I said.

But Sharon had another point to make. ‘It looks like you’ve found your gap,’ she said to Fitzpiers.

‘My gap?’

‘You remember, you wondered if there was room for another book on Hardy.’

‘And you think I’ve proved there is?’

‘Undoubtedly. The Alien From Tophet.’

‘I see it. I see it. A Study of Extra-Terrestrial Imagery and Lunar Aspirations in the Later Fiction of Thomas Hardy, beginning with a chapter to be entitled “Did Men From Outer Space Construct Stonehenge To Get Tess Back?” You aren’t taking the piss by any chance, are you?’

Sharon? She was just having the time of her life. She loved meeting people. By the time the afternoon was over she had got around to calling Dr Rowland Fitzpiers Fitz. It was all going exactly the way I wanted it to, in so far as I could be certain that I wanted it to.

[3]

‘Well?’ I asked.

‘Well what?’

‘Do you like him?’

‘Fitz?’

‘My friend Rowland, yes.’

‘He isn’t your friend. You hardly know him.’

‘I see. This morning you’d never clapped eyes on him, tonight we’re fighting about who knows him better.’

‘I’m not fighting.’

‘That’s only because you think you’ve already won.’

‘Won? Won what?’

‘I hesitate to answer that, Sharon.’

‘Good. Good night.’

‘But answer it I will. The battle for my old friend Rowland’s – or, if you prefer, your new friend Fitz’s – affection.’

‘Why don’t you go to sleep?’

‘I don’t want to go to sleep. I want to talk this thing out.’

‘What thing? There isn’t any thing.’

‘Oh but there is, Sharon. Are not you a Strumpet?’

Sharon rose in her bed and looked down at me. She knew that if I’d been seriously spoiling for a fight I would have been upright myself, wearing at least the top half of my pyjamas and threatening her with the wildness of my stare; but I was flat on my pillows tonight, with my eyes closed, blind like a mole, sniffing darkness.

‘Barney,’ she said, trying to get me to open my eyes.

‘What, not a Whore?’

‘Barney,’ she asked, ‘are you jealous?’

‘Me?’

‘You.’

‘Jealous?’

‘Jealous.’

‘Sharon, I don’t know the meaning of the word.’

‘Good. Then I can sleep contentedly. See you in the morning.’

‘Don’t go to sleep.’

‘Why not?’

‘I’m jealous.’

‘Say it again.’

‘I’m jealous.’

‘Barney, not so very long ago you told me that jealousy gave you pleasure.’

‘I did. It does.’

‘Then enjoy yourself. Good night.’