She settled herself, turned out the light, and composed herself for sleep. Normally this involved deliberately putting out of her mind the affairs of the office. It was always tempting to think about what had happened in the working day, but it could be fatal for the onset of sleep. What she should have done, what she had done, what she might do the following morning—these were all matters that did not belong in the bedroom. But that night, as she lay there in the dark, she found herself staring up at the darkened, all but invisible ceiling, thinking about what had been said on that curious, unsatisfactory car journey. She could no longer think of the woman as Mma Not Rosie and now thought of her as Rosie; nor could she get out of her mind the glimpse she had been afforded—in the rear-view mirror—of the expression on Rosie’s face as she vented her anger. When she cried I was there; I was the one who comforted her. That was exactly what a nurse might say…And when her little dog became sick and died I was the one who helped her bury it at the end of the garden and put the stones around its grave. You would not make that up; that had the ring of the heartfelt about it. And I was the one who nursed her when she was ill because the real mother was always working or playing tennis. The reference to tennis did not sound like part of a prepared script; that, again, had a genuine feel. I was the one, and you people don’t know that—and you don’t care, do you? The final accusation, voiced with all the feeling of one who had been discourteously treated. By me, she thought; by me and my assistant—co-director, or whatever Mma Makutsi now was; in my husband’s car…