‘Uncles, ankles.’ (Faint memory of Clug.)

‘What?’

‘Nothing,’ she said. (And who else?)

‘Oh, Laura.’ He pressed his face against her thighs, embracing them. ‘Take off that great sweater.’

‘Don’t knock me over.’ Laura sat down on the hearthrug. ‘We could skip the reading,’ she said, pulling the sweater over her head.

‘Shall we? Here? By the fire?’

‘Why not? It’s comfortable, isn’t it?’ she said.

‘Isn’t it wonderful what arms, legs and hands can do, and mouths,’ Claud said presently, lying with his mouth against her neck, her hair brushing his eyes. ‘I could weep, I am so happy.’ He felt the warmth of the fire on his back, contrasting it with the temperature of Laura’s body. He could not see her face above his, frowning, puzzled, amused. ‘I have thought so much about you all this long time.’

‘And who else?’ Laura questioned gently.

‘Nobody else.’

‘Mavis, for instance, or Susie?’

‘Oh no. Nobody, unless you count the girl in the book.’

‘Does she make love like this?’

‘Of course. “These little deaths, this rare love.” I cut that sentence. It was one of the first to go into the wastepaper basket. Oh God, Laura! I haven’t given you my present. I left it at the corner of the house when I—what a fool I am! It’s the proof that I—’ Claud scrambled to his feet, rushed to the door, darted, naked as he was, out.

Laura sat up crossly, feeling the draught of icy air let in by Claud, and pulled her sweater over her head. She was reaching for her jeans when Claud returned.

‘Christ, it’s cold out there.’ He was shivering. ‘Here it is, my present, all for you.’

‘Shut the door, Claud. What is it?’ She took the plastic bag he handed her. ‘Sit down, get warm, put another log on the fire. Let’s have a look. Oh!’

‘It is everything I have discarded, all the parings. No, you are not to read them. I brought them to you to prove that I have cut, cut, whittled down, cut, what’s the word?’

‘Edited?’

‘Yes.’

‘Shall we burn it, then?’ She peered at the waste paper.

‘Of course, that was my hope.’

‘Not in here, it would set the chimney on fire. I know, let us put it on my bonfire. Put some clothes on, let’s do it now.’

They dressed, laughing, excited, and hurried into the garden. Laura seized her rake and parted the bonfire, which flared up, crackled and spat in the darkness. Claud tipped the contents of the bag into its centre, then Laura raked the fire back, piling sticks and leaves high over the paper. They watched the smoke curl into the moonlight, heavy acrid smoke stifling the aromatic scent of the winter burning, making them cough and move away. Then, ‘Leave it, come in, let us open a bottle of wine,’ said Laura. ‘We’ll celebrate, find something to eat.’

‘And then back to bed?’

‘Why not?’ She felt light-hearted, happy, rash.