Under the quilt Jean felt her hand grasped by the leather splint.

“You are a good friend.”

“So, I’m going to send a photographer round to take some pictures next time you have Margaret. This Saturday? Obviously, we want you to look as similar as possible, so if you could do your hair the same and dress alike . . .”

“We don’t have anything matching.”

“Oh, nothing elaborate; just white blouse, dark skirt, that sort of thing. It’s a pity you cut your hair.”

Gretchen put her hand up to her bare neck.

“Yes, it was warmer before, too. I could always cut Margaret’s the same.”

“Oh no!” said Jean, horrified. “Her beautiful curls.” She felt quite sick at the thought of any such mutilation. “And, Gretchen, I have to warn you that once your name is in the Echo there is nothing to stop other papers following it up. You may have to deal with some unwelcome publicity.”

Gretchen looked fearful.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, your current domestic situation is not exactly what it was when we first began.”

“But you won’t mention Martha’s name or anything to do with her?”

“No, of course I won’t. But others might.” She relented when she saw Gretchen’s troubled expression. “Ignore me. Probably nothing will come of it.”

Outside in the hallway there was a sudden crashing noise and Gretchen started, slopping tea on the tabard. A moment later there was the sound of swearing and clubbing feet overhead and doors banging.

“Just some altercation between Dennis and the bicycle, no doubt,” she said, relaxing again. “He comes in drunk at odd times and falls over everything. And then his wife throws him out—again—and then a few days later she lets him back in.” She laughed, a catch in her throat. “Until I came here I would never have believed people could live such chaotic lives.”

“This place isn’t really you, is it, Gretchen?” Jean said softly.

Gretchen shook her head, staring into her lap. When she looked up her eyes were swimming.

“Jean,” she said, her face collapsing. “I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

“What do you mean?” Jean stammered.

“You were right. You were right all along. I can’t do it. I can’t do without Margaret.”

“But there’s no room for her here. You must see it’s totally unsuitable.”

“I know, but I miss her so much when she’s not here. The weekend goes so quickly . . . It’s not even the whole weekend—it’s just one night!”

Jean, who knew exactly how inadequate this pocket of time could be, could only murmur her sympathy. There was nothing to be done about it; Margaret had made her choice. As she tried to find a way of saying this that wasn’t too wounding, Gretchen’s sobbing intensified.

“Please will you do one thing for me, Jean? I’ll never ask another favor,” she pleaded, her voice thick and bubbling.

“What?”

“Please, please will you talk to Howard and ask him to take me back? I know he’ll listen to you. I just want to go back to the way we were.”