Nicholas approached his car; the warden, taller and burlier than Nicholas, stood his ground (Laura asked herself which of the two men needed her protection). Nicholas snatched the ticket stuck behind his wiper and tore it across. Obeying an instinct similar to that of a dog confronted by a cat, its back arched, its mouth spitting, the warden shrugged and turned away.

Laura chuckled, ran her tongue over her freshly scaled teeth and, relaxing, let her thoughts return pleasurably to Claud, so fresh and ingenuous after Clug. He was vulnerable in a way Clug could never have been, more importantly so than Christopher in youth. I could protect Claud, she thought, then almost laughed outright as she was swept by an irresistible exultant desire to interfere, manipulate, experiment with Claud—by way of protection.

‘You reach it up this thing. I’ll go first.’ Mavis climbed a metal ladder towards a trap-door in the ceiling. She still wore her greatcoat. Claud, watching her climb, resisted nipping her Achilles tendon between finger and thumb. ‘A well turned ankle,’ he said, reaching up but not touching.

‘A what? Come on up.’ She had disappeared.

‘Dornford Yates or Somerset Maugham, perhaps?’ Claud climbed the ladder.

Above him Mavis switched on a light. ‘It’s pretty basic,’ she said as he came up through the floor, ‘just the bed, a table, a chair, the bookshelves. You’ll need somewhere to keep your clothes.’

The loft was larger than he had expected; cold light streamed through attic windows. Claud went to the window. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘what a view!’

‘Yes,’ said Mavis, ‘yes.’ She stuffed her hands up the sleeves of her coat.

They looked across slate roofs and jumbled chimney pots to the town gasworks, and to the right the river, where boats moored in midstream, swans and ducks cruised. The air in the attic was dry. Claud sneezed and, when he breathed in again, sniffed the faint smell he had noticed when, reaching across the table in the wine bar, Mavis had set the coffee in front of Laura. Fresh flesh. He felt simultaneously a wish to kiss Mavis’ throat as it emerged from the heavy coat and something which resembled lust for Laura. Watching the gasometer, he sighed as the twin desires cancelled each other out.

Hearing the sigh, Mavis questioned, ‘So it won’t do? As I said, it’s pretty basic.’ She excused the loft. ‘It’s not even an attic.’

‘No, no, it’s lovely. I could bring some rugs from home. Do you think your mother will rent it to me? What’s the rent?’

‘Let’s go and ask her.’ Mavis led the way down the ladder. She feared her mother would find the prospective tenant too young; she wanted a steady tenant who would not be likely to negotiate the ladder drunk. There had been an unfortunate incident with a visiting cousin who had slipped and been badly bruised. Since this episode Ann Kennedy had dreaded an entanglement with insurance companies. On the other hand a tenant of guaranteed sobriety might not be sufficiently spry to negotiate the ladder. It was a worry; she needed the rent. ‘Don’t be surprised if you hear me tell my mother that you don’t drink,’ said Mavis.