I couldn’t work out what she was getting at, at first. She kept asking me if I was living in Stephen’s flat and if I was Stephen’s agent. I was pretty cautious to begin with because Stephen wasn’t really allowed to sublet, and then again I’m never really sure if I am Stephen’s agent. For some things and not for others, I think I said, in an offputting kind of way, because frankly I thought she was being a bit nosy. And then when I heard what she’d got I wished I’d been more forthcoming. I can’t remember quite what I said, but I think I claimed to be Stephen’s literary executor (which, after a manner of speaking, I am) and I said I’d have a look. Actually, I think that’s what she’d wanted. So that’s how it began.

It was strange, having to think about Stephen again. I’d behaved so atrociously on that last evening that I’d kind of blotted him out of my mind. Even though I am living in his pad and sleeping in his bed and I’m sorry to say drinking up his wine, even the bottles that said KEEP UNTIL 1992. I suppose I’d been hoping he wouldn’t come back too soon. He was well out of my way, and I was beginning to ingratiate myself with the landlord. (Mr Goodfellow, he’s called. A nice man.) Not that I wished Stephen any harm, of course, but he’d always been a bit of a wanderer, and I wasn’t at all surprised not to hear from him for a year or two. He sent me a postcard, and that was quite enough for me. I’m a very undemanding woman. It was of a sleeping Buddha, if I remember rightly. Which I do. I have it still. It’s on the mantelpiece.

But when Liz rang, I realized it was more than a year or two. It was more like a year or three. Time flies. I checked in my rent book, and it was indeed over two years since I took over his modest establishment. And then I did begin to feel a little anxious. Maybe something really had gone wrong?

I’d arranged to meet Liz in a couple of days, and during that time I made a few inquiries. He’d arranged for his royalties to be paid through his accountant, who’d been left in charge of the VAT and all that nonsense, so I rang them to ask when they’d last had any instructions from him (I was quite proud of that word, ‘instructions’, it sounded pretty professional, I thought). They said they couldn’t say. I asked where he was when they last heard from him, and they said they didn’t know, and I said who were his bankers, and they said they couldn’t tell me, very unhelpful. They said they thought he had a bank account abroad. I asked where, and they said it was nothing to do with me, and rang off.