She ran a bath and as she soaked in the hot water composed a list of mundane things she must do. Finish tidying the garden, clean the house, create order in her disorderly rooms, persuade the cleaning lady to return as soon as her period of mourning was over, stock up Nicholas and Emily’s store cupboards and deep-freeze, take their clothes to the cleaners, have their car serviced, make a blitz with the Hoover to rid carpets, sofas and chairs of Bonzo’s hairs, and finally bath Bonzo. Making her list she cajoled her normal self to take over. She got out of the bath and dressed in bright yellow trousers, a pink shirt, green sweater. Her hand still pained her a bit, but it would heal. She would not forget what she had read on that ball of paper. She would make use of its memory to counterbalance her feelings (feelings which had been in danger of bolting up a blind alley). She would not stop sleeping with Claud just yet but the terms must be hers, as they had been at the beginning in the loft when she had been the sexual leader.

As she put a fresh dressing on her hand she grimly recalled unravelling the cat’s toy, and reading what Claud had written. A passionate declaration, an explicit detailed description of love and not just physical love was stressed. There was a zest of the spiritual. (It was a fine piece of writing; she hoped he carried it in his head to write again.) From past experience she knew it was possible to cope with a live rival if so minded, it could be rather entertaining, but she recoiled from competition with a person as purely imaginary as Claud’s girl May. (He had not last night quite got around to May; he had skated and glossed over her as he told his tale.) May, Laura thought, what an awful name. No drama about a name like May. Will May survive? Will he perhaps change May to some grander, more cogent, more dramatic name? The sheer silliness and inadequacy of the name eased her feelings, made her laugh, and feeling better so did her burned hand.

She tried to imagine May, a girl who was, after all, composite: Mavis’ hair, Susie’s skin, her own legs. It was absurd, laughable.

Then, remembering Claud’s rendition of his book and how moved she had been, she dismissed these mean thoughts. Claud had created a girl who came alive, a girl who would linger in the minds of his readers, a person people would discuss, comparing her with other characters in literature. Like it or not May had style. I underestimated Claud, Laura thought. I used him for pleasure. I even suspected him of being a little camp. Then last night, serve me right, I went overboard, was even ridiculously in danger of believing his suggestion of marriage could be serious, not just froth. I could not have been much stupider than that.