They warned me about you. All the women I knew, and most of the men. My grandmother said, be careful, that man is bad for you. I said, don’t worry, I’m a grown-­up. No one’s ever grown-­up enough for love, she said. I said, Gran, you’re old. You had your experiences, but your experiences aren’t mine, do you understand? She just looked at me with her old, grey eyes.

So you got it wrong when you thought it was you I meant that evening. You often got it wrong.

How many times did you think I’d fallen asleep on the sofa with my head on your shoulder? I never slept, not once. I just closed my eyes. I knew you would look at my face. I could feel your gaze, and I knew you wouldn’t dare move until I opened my eyes again. It was my way of holding on to you, at least until the film was over.

Because that’s also the truth: I wanted you. You can’t explain these things. It’s as if you jump into a river even though you know it flows into an abyss. Only suicides and lovers know what that’s like. I wanted you, and I got you. I jumped. And it was nice to drift along with you for a while.

I never told you, but I saw you, once. Only one time. I’d had enough of waiting for you and I went out in the middle of the night. The town was in darkness. The only light on the street came from the window of the Golden Moon. I saw you standing in front of that machine. Your fingers calmly, rhythmically pressing coins into the slot. Your foot, beating time on the floorboards. And I saw your face, with the reflections of the little lights skimming across it. I wanted to go to you, but I couldn’t move; I stayed outside on the street. What was so disconcerting was that you looked happy. You still looked as good as you did that night at Kobielski’s, yet you were more of a stranger to me than ever before. You were a good-­looking, happy stranger. I watched you for half an hour or more, and then I went home.

I don’t know what it was that made me carry on. Or rather, I do know: it was the fear of being alone. And my own stubbornness. I became stupidly determined to show everyone. I wanted to prove to them that they’d been wrong, that their experiences had nothing to do with mine, and not every blasted river has to end in a blasted abyss.

Do you remember the necklace with the red stones that you laid out for me on the bed? When I opened my eyes, I thought for a moment that there was blood on the pillow. You put the necklace around my neck. They were glass stones. Cool, smooth, cheap glass. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t say anything, either, when one day the necklace was gone. Or when my grandmother’s silver ring suddenly couldn’t be found. Not a word when coins and notes went missing from my bag. Did you ever actually wonder where I got hold of so much money? Why it was sometimes loose in my handbag? How much do you think a chambermaid earns in a cheap hotel like the Black Buck? Not enough, Lennie.