“What time are you seeing Cullis tomorrow?”

“Ten o’clock.”

“I suppose I’d better go and choose some wallpaper.” On their first posting to Lisbon they had been allowed white only. As Wavery rose up the ladder so he graduated to white broken with the colour of his choice. As an ambassador he would be permitted wallpaper.

She told him about her weekend, visiting the gallery-owner near Poole. Wavery had forgotten his name. A neighbour’s roof had blown off in the gale.

“There was this sweet painter staying, called Sally something. She reminded me of Edwina. She said he liked my paintings, especially the Cuzco ones.” She finished her glass. “And no, I didn’t.”

“Didn’t what?” asked Wavery, puzzled.

“Didn’t sleep with him.”

“Penny –”

She ordered more wine. There were tears in her eyes.

“I wonder what the cook’s done with Paracas,” he said. Penny had left Jésus instructions to feed the tortoise on grated carrot.

She shuddered, goosepimpling. He stroked her and she pulled away.

He returned to the menu. “What was that dish I always liked, with clams?”

“I don’t know.”

His eyes stayed on the menu.

“We don’t know each other better, Tom, after thirty-five years. If anything we don’t know each other at all.”

“Oh, I think I know you,” he said.

“No, you don’t. I’m twenty different people. You haven’t bothered to get to know one of them.”

He spread a cheese paste on a piece of bread. Each time she behaved like this, she lowered a bucket into his heart, emptying it of something precious. For years he had waited patiently for some internal substance to revive.

“We love each other,” he said.

“Scripts are expensive, Tom, but don’t – and God, you look awful when you smile like that.”

He folded his glasses and tucked them in the pocket of his shirt. He continued, the clockwork in his voice running down. “It’s just that, unlike you, I don’t feel the need to do an inventory of our relationship every second.”

Of course, there would be times when the heart didn’t beat as hard, when comparisons would make the present seem less appetising than the past. “But that’s because we have a history.”

She played with a small pack of butter, squashing the frozen contents this way and that. She had heard it before, the useless grinding, the clang of the empty bucket against the well.

“Why don’t you speak to me? You know my frailty. Don’t tell me it’s your work.”

“I missed you.”

“I wish you wouldn’t answer so glibly. When you answer like that I feel this fragile paper boat I’ve sent out has been blown over.”

“I missed you.”

“You didn’t miss me in Lisbon.”

“I did.” His voice was bloodstained.

“Oh, Tom, what are you talking about? You’re still on planet Wavery. I sit here listening to you thinking, should I tell him he’s a prick? No, because I’m not into mothering him. It isn’t how it used to be. That’s what makes me bitter. Last night, you just turned out the light. You didn’t want to see my face. You just fucked me.”