Continuing with the annual clearance of her workshop, a practice she normally enjoyed, she found herself irrationally cursing Helen for not reminding her, for not sending Christopher to harass her, for letting her forget. She remembered now that when she had last seen Helen, Helen had reminded her, a reminder that she instantly forgot since her thoughts had been busy with Claud. There had been far too much thought of Claud, she told herself angrily. He had lasted too long in the first place and he was now only having a come-back thanks to his novel.

Laura threw the telephone directories into the bin. Damn Claud, she thought, slamming the lid on the bin. She would take the hand down to Helen during the coming week, grovel, fix the hand onto the god for her, tell her not to worry about the bill. Helen would be embarrassed and she, Laura, would feel better. This really is menopausal stuff, she thought.

Having fixed Helen, she would call in on Nicholas and Emily for a surprise visit. There would be no time to see Claud. He had moved on in his life, as she had in hers; thoughts of Claud were retrogressive; she never bothered to think of Clug or other lovers like this; it was nice to meet them occasionally on a friendly basis, but they were ‘over’, were they not?

She finished cleaning the workshop, looked round at the order she had reduced it to with satisfaction and left.

That afternoon she walked through the parks to Trafalgar Square, spent an hour in the National Gallery, had dinner with friends and went to bed. The following day being Sunday she would sleep late as she usually did, wander out to buy the papers and, depending on the weather, decide how to spend her day.

In the event she was wakened early by some American friends she had not seen for over a year, who drove her down to spend the day near Oxford. When she got home, it was late. She was tired and rolled into bed after feeding the cat without bothering to listen to possible messages on the Ansaphone.

It was Monday evening before she thought to bother about messages. She had had an unexpectedly busy day; clients with urgent orders from abroad had kept her late at work. She was tired when she reached her flat, had a leisurely bath, washed her hair, changed her clothes, poured herself a stiff drink of whisky, put her feet up on the sofa and switched on the Ansaphone.

The first two messages were routine; she sipped her drink. Then there was a blank, then a loud screechy voice which she did not recognise started an incoherent babble about not knowing what to do and would she come at once. A second voice interrupted, ‘Here Mum, let me,’ and ‘We got your number from your mother, Laura, what an old bitch, can you come, it’s about Claud, he’s—’