"Mr. Glass realizes this has been a strain. He suggested you took a break. Take the wife on a little holiday. The villa at Malta's free, or there's Corfu if you fancy—"

"No," said Nobbi.

"All expenses paid, Nobbi. Fly executive class. Marilyn would love it."

"Yeah," said Nobbi. "I'll think about it."

His heart pounded like lead.

"But you do understand, don't you, Nobbi? I mean, Mr. Glass wouldn't like it if you hadn't understood."

"I understand."

"That's good, Nobbi."

Nobbi drank the poison in his glass. Luke smiled on him. Nobbi was a good man.

"How about some oysters, Nobbi?"

It was sleeting, and Marilyn was at the hairdresser's, with Jason. In the lounge Van Gogh's Sunflowers eyed Nobbi malevolently.

He went out into the garden, into the sleet.

On one side of the swimming pool, covered now, a rock garden full of gnomes filled him with a sense of all futility. He walked over and let himself into his office.

The stuffed lion sat on his desk. It looked reproachful.

"Bloody useless," said Nobbi.

He took out one of his cigars and stood gazing at it.

They knew. They knew and they would not say. And he had to buckle under. Because he was helpless.

He sat down at the desk, and he thought back to that day she had phoned him. "Where are you?"

"London. Just wanted to talk to you… He's famous. Don't nag."

Some bloody rock singer. Some weird place. In London. London.

The conversation had been doubly frustrating too, because an ice-cream van had been there, gurning outside the box.

Nobbi stiffened. He put down the cigar and pointed at the lion. "Christ."

How could he have forgotten that? The van playing that tune so loud he could barely hear what Tray said to him. And it was an outlandish tune. Some classical stuff, he thought. If only he could remember how it went—

Nobbi got up again, and walked round the room, trying, trying-He could hear it, just upstairs in his brain, just too far away to make it out.

Nobbi struggled, and his blood roared in his ears, so he could not hear the tune at all.

The sleet slashed at Stella's windows. She had drawn the curtains, a restful light brown with green leaves. There was a wonderful smell of roasting beef, slowly cooked since morning until it had the consistency of butter.

They went into the bedroom to make love.

Nobbi put his hand on Star's warm thigh. "I'm sorry, love."

"Am I doing something wrong?"

"What you're doing's lovely. But I just—can't keep my mind on it. It's worrying about her, you see."

"Oh, Nobbi, poor Nobbi."

They sat in the main room while the joint cooked, and held hands. He was glad to be near her, she was restful. Quiet.

In the background faint music played. Something classical, but not the right one.