Guessing his thoughts, Laura decided that such a move would pander to his incipient weakness; she would give the money to Oxfam. She put the envelope on the mantelshelf. Looking at Claud in the light of the fire she thought he looked older, more vulnerable. His slightly blurred features had sharpened during her absence; he was more adult, his attractiveness increased. ‘My mother does not know my address, only my phone number.’

‘So secret? Not even your mother?’

‘Particularly not my mother. She could, perhaps, if she’d be bothered, give you my address at work; it’s in the telephone book.’

‘Oh.’ Claud felt foolish. ‘Is where you live as private as the loft used to be?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘But you will tell me?’ He was confident.

Others had been equally confident. Laura did not answer. She sat cross-legged eating crumpets, drinking tea. The firelight sent shadows dancing across her face, invented red lights in her hair. Fat chance, she thought. She said: ‘I must settle my invalids for the night, then your novel shall have my undivided attention.’ She kissed his cheek, stood up.

‘I thought—’

‘We could do that afterwards, surely the novel is the most important?’ she said.

Claud thought it too difficult to explain that the novel was the loving and the loving was in large part Laura. He watched her go, then heaped the used tea things on a tray and put it by the sink, hesitating whether to wash up. He decided against; he might break a precious cup, chip the already chipped pot. ‘No seed cake today,’ he said out loud. He peered into the bedroom. Laura’s gardening clothes lay in a heap, red trousers, yellow shirt, violet sweater. From the centre of the bed the small cat watched. ‘You’ll soon have to move,’ Claud threatened the cat. The animal’s yellow eyes gave nothing away. Claud said, ‘Shoo.’ The cat did not stir; he would have liked to throw something, to give it a fright, but he went back to the hearth, stacked more wood on the fire, waited for Laura.

There was really very little of the novel left to read. He could, though, tell her the tale; it was clear in his head. He could read her the few extracts that were left, the excellent description of her legs, the paragraph about Mavis’ hair, the description of Susie’s skin. I wish she would hurry back, he thought. ‘I thought you were never coming,’ he said as she came through the door.

‘I am here now,’ she said, looking down at him. ‘Shall you start reading?’

Claud reached up to her waist, hooking his fingers in her waistband. ‘There is hardly anything left of the book to read,’ he said, undoing the button of her jeans. ‘But I can quote you the best passage, which is about your legs.’ He unzipped her fly. ‘I destroyed so much but it is all there, in my head, ready to flow onto the typewriter.’ Kneeling, he drew the jeans down from her waist. ‘Your dream legs keep me awake at night in a state of frustrated lust. Please step out of those, you might fall over into the fire.’ Trapped by her ankles, Laura stepped cautiously out of the jeans. ‘You have wonderful ankles,’ he said.