‘I’ve noticed.’

‘Everything will be all right now. Different. I promise.’ He stretched his hand across the table, hoping to find mine. I picked up the whiskey glass and held it against my chest, like a shield, held tight in my laced fingers.

‘And the children. Tell me about them.’

‘Three. Maria, Julia and Anna.’

It was like getting treacle from a well. ‘Ages?’

‘Ten, six and … ah … two months.’

‘Two months!’

‘Well, nearly.’

‘You mean to say that your wife has had a baby since you and I … since … This woman with whom you do not really live? You mean to say that?’

‘I mean to say,’ he leant towards me, his voice low and very controlled, ‘that I have a wife with whom I live; sometimes we have friendly relations, most of the time we do not. I do not hate her. I do not love her, but I live with her. I love my children. I love you. I have told you that and you must believe it. I have been very, very foolish, Clara. I realise that now. If this is causing you pain, I can only say how sorry I am. They were well-intentioned lies I told you.’

‘I like that. I like well-intentioned lies. I must remember that.’

‘Don’t fool about, Clara. Now you know the truth we can begin to put our relationship on a more stable footing.’

‘A what?’

‘Work out a pattern.’

I was trembling all over; I was literally shaking in my shoes. I wondered if I was going to be able to stand up. Quickly I swallowed the rest of the whiskey and put the glass on the table. I twisted my hands tightly together, hurting my fingers as I squeezed and pressed. The whiskey was burning my throat.

‘And anagram …?’

He looked puzzled. ‘An – a – gram. My anagram, my alter ego, my shadow – does she know about me? I am her anagram. Carla – Clara. Isn’t that delightful? Will she find it delightful and join us in creating a pattern?’

‘Don’t be silly, Clara. Finish your drink, darling, and let’s go somewhere else.’

I stood up slowly and reached out for the pint of Guinness. I had at last discovered the purpose of Guinness, I thought to myself as I poured it quite slowly, or so it seemed to me, over his head.

‘Hey!’

The brown liquid foamed down over his face, into his eyes and ears and down his neck. His pale blue Brooks Brothers’ shirt became brown, his tie was streaked with the liquid. It ran round the collar of his jacket and then over his shoulders. A pint is quite a lot of liquid. I was hoping that it would penetrate through all his clothes to his pale golden skin.

‘Explain that to the anagram,’ I said and left the bar.

The barman shouted something after me that sounded like, ‘That’s the stuff to give the troops.’ But I wouldn’t swear to it.