But I was determined. And there were the men in the tangled beds, with their tangled dreams. I can’t remember a single one of the many words they whispered in my ear, not a single name, and even the memory of their faces faded before I left the room. Only the smell remained.

Then again, it could have been worse. I forgave you your lies. The stealing. And did you really think I didn’t know that your job wasn’t all about clipping rosebuds? Could you seriously have thought that, in all those years, I never once saw you rinsing out waste bins or scratching dried dogshit off the pavement?

I’ve forgiven you, Lennie. But I couldn’t forgive myself. I’m not talking about the lost time. You can’t lose time. I lost my dignity. Or rather: I gave it away. I discarded my dignity like an old coat.

The night you left there was a film on TV. It was about a pilot who falls in love with a dark-­eyed smuggler in Puerto Rico and gets into trouble on her account. The pilot couldn’t sleep because of the heat, and kept stroking his thumb across his moustache. I don’t remember anything else. I cried all through the film. I sobbed and screamed into the cushions. I was furious. I couldn’t understand what had happened. I thought of my grandmother and all the others. I hated the lot of them, and I hated myself. But most of all I hated you, Lennie.

Eventually the fit passed. The film had finished and I could hear the news from underneath my blanket; it seemed to be coming from a long way off. Something inside me had broken, or snapped, and I knew that I would never have to see you in the Golden Moon again, with that bright happiness in your face.

Stephen was a good man. He’d decided that I was the one, and I was tired and wanted someone I could lean on. His salary was enough for both of us, and I was able to give up the Black Buck. I wanted to take care of the garden. The plants all died, one after another, and I said to Stephen, it’s probably because of the soil or the rain or the dirty air or something. He said, you’re probably right, and we concreted over two-­thirds of the lawn. At least the pear tree bloomed. Its blossom was delicate and white, and in spring, when we opened the windows, the house filled with its scent.

I bet you think I’m still alive. You never did have much imagination. Perhaps you think that right at this moment I’m standing beside your grave with big fat tears in my eyes or something. Wrong again.

Do you remember the card I sent you? I wrote it one evening in April. It was pelting down outside. I sat at the kitchen table, wrote the card, and felt better and freer than I had in ages. When I’d finished I got up and went over to the window. The pear tree was rustling in the rain. The next morning I felt too weak to get up, and barely a month later I was dead. Something had been eating me up inside for a long time. Stephen stayed with me till the end. He sat beside my bed, and I saw his face get paler by the day, until finally you couldn’t distinguish it in the chalk-­white brightness of the room. I have hardly any recollection of those days and nights. One of my last memories was of your hands, Lennie. Your fingers smelled of earth.