He was unwilling to let it go, but he shrugged. Jane put her head in her hands and sighed. “Pete, I’m tired out. I’m sorry tonight didn’t go as well as you’d planned, but you’ve got the contract, so why don’t we just go to bed?”

The memories of the day swamped her: the smell of the factory, the smell of the two tarts’ flat, her feelings, the smells, all muddled and out of control . . . She couldn’t stop the tears, she just sat hunched in front of the mirror, crying, crying for the waste, the little tart who had been raped by her stepfather when she was seven, little Jeannie with no one to bury her, who Jane didn’t even know, yet she was crying for her and all the other Jeannies who lived and died like that and nobody gave a shit for . . .

Peter squatted down and brushed her hair from her face. “It’s all right, love. Like you said, I got the contract. Maybe I had a few too many . . . Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

Jane went to bed, but she didn’t sleep for a long time. When she woke she found the kitchen full of the debris of dinner; not a single dish had been washed. She put her coat on, ready to leave for work, and took two aspirin with her coffee.

Peter, his hair standing on end, joined her.

“Pete, I’ve been thinking over everything. Last night . . .”

With a grin he reached for her, tried to kiss her. She stepped back. “I love you, Pete, I really do, but you’re right. It doesn’t work, does it? I do put my work first. I don’t think I can change, because I’m doing what I always wanted, and to succeed I have to put everything into it. I have to prove myself every day, to every man on that force—and to myself . . .”

She was telling him that they could never lead the sort of life he wanted. It hurt a lot, and he wanted to gather her in his arms, make it all right. But the doorbell rang. They just looked at each other, with so much more to say and no time to say it in.

Peter said quickly, “Don’t say anything more now, let’s talk it over tonight. Maybe I haven’t been easy to live with, maybe if I was more secure . . .”

The doorbell rang again. “You’d better go, Jane.”

“I don’t know what time I’ll be back.”

Peter stood for a moment after she’d left, surveying the kitchen, then he lashed out at the stack of dishes on the draining board, sending them crashing into the sink.