As they opened the door the cat skittered out between their feet. Claud thought: Now we can have the bed. The cat disappeared, leaping.

Laura beat eggs for an omelette, mixed a salad, found bread and cheese. Claud opened a bottle of wine. As they ate he began telling her about his book, his thoughts pouring out in a rush, the plot unravelling between mouthfuls of omelette and gulps of wine. Sometimes he searched the meagre remains of his manuscript and read extracts which had escaped the holocaust. Laura listened, surprised, entranced, moved. At last, when the food was eaten, the wine drunk, the story told, she said very quietly, ‘It’s good, it’s very good,’ sighing, ‘wonderful.’

‘You mean that?’ He was trembling.

‘Yes, I do.’

‘If it fails I shall never write another word. I shall kill myself.’

‘There should be no such thought.’ Laura was distressed.

‘But there is, there would be.’

‘You are exhausted, so am I. Come to bed.’

‘Did you mean it? Do you really think—you just said it’s good to comfort me, to console.’ He was suspicious.

‘I did not. It is good. If you write it as you told it and keep the bits you read to me, you cannot fail. I swear it’s good.’

‘You will not betray me?’

‘What is there to betray? Of course I shan’t, don’t be stupid.’

‘Swear—’

‘Look, Claud, I am tired, so are you. What is this?’

‘Fear of failure. Fear of death. Same thing. Laura. Promise me—’

Melodrama, thought Laura, sleepy by now. This reminds me of recent Clug. Why do I pick artists? ‘Come to bed, darling. I promise to try not to betray. Will that do?’

‘Why only try?’ Claud was excited, excited by his book, by the bonfire, by love-making, by the wine. ‘Give me half a promise then,’ he shouted.

‘I will give you that willingly.’ She put her arms round him and held him close. ‘I am only half a person,’ she said.

‘Laura, you are crying. Why do you cry?’

‘It is the smoke from the bonfire.’ She wiped the tears with her knuckles. I am flawed, she thought, I am in danger. ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘listen to the night. Go to sleep.’

‘I can hear your heart. Will you give it to me?’

‘Not possible.’

‘Will you marry me?’

‘Don’t make stupid jokes.’

‘No joke, I repeat: will you marry me?’

‘When I am seventy-five, you will be fifty-three.’

‘So? Will you marry me?’

‘I am old enough to be your mother. Go to sleep.’ She rocked him gently in her arms, stroking him. What smooth and lovely flesh, how hard the muscles, how fine the flat stomach, ah, there and there, how straight the spine, what delicious nobs. ‘Sleep now. Stop talking, listen to the night.’

‘There’s a gale getting up, the stillness moves.’

‘Yes, yes, listen, lie quiet.’

‘Tomorrow I shall start the book all over again.’

‘Yes. The final version. Yes.’