And let us leave her there, pondering the choice between various garments, each of which seemed to present some minor disadvantage. The long all-faults-concealing pink cheesecloth had a drooping hem and tripped her up. The too revealing dress from Richard Shops always showed bra straps as well as a daring amount of bosom, and the Indian one smelled rather strongly of Ruth, who had borrowed it recently for a school concert, a smell delightful to Kate but not perhaps to others. The old black one was marginally too tight, and even when it had fitted had been a bit on the vulgar side. Perhaps none of them suited her at all, perhaps none of them had ever suited her. Why ever had she in a fit of folly bought that expensive French silk, had she really ever thought she’d have the nerve to wear it?

Let us leave her there, in an attitude of indecision, confronted by choice. Not, of course, a very serious choice, unless you wish to read it symbolically; but not, you will agree, an uncommon one. A lot of time is spent in such attitudes, by many of us who would not care to admit it. There she sits, Kate Armstrong, in her black Marks-and-Spencer petticoat, her feet dangling in their emerald Arabian slippers, wondering what to wear, and wondering what will happen at her party. Will Hunt stay reasonably sober and refrain from insulting people, will Marylou turn up, and if so, what on earth will people make of her, will Stuart be civil to Ted, will Ted make a pass at Rosamund Stacey, will Evelyn find the whole thing too exhausting, will Hugo’s mother find it too much of a squash, will the neighbours object to the noise? Will she herself abandon all hesitation and agree to fly out to Bagdad with Hugo, will she find a voice in which to speak, at last, to Ted, there, amongst so many people? Will she fall in love with Ruth’s Rastaman? (The Rastaman was to prove to be as beautiful as Ruth had promised, though disappointingly lacking in dreadlocks: he and Marylou were to dance together, he striped in red, green and gold, she in her beige pink lace, a sight not to be forgotten.) Anything is possible, it is all undecided. Everything or nothing. It is all in the future. Excitement fills her, excitement, joy, anticipation, apprehension. Something will happen. The water glints in the distance. It is unplanned, unpredicted. Nothing binds her, nothing holds her. It is the unknown, and there is no way of stopping it. It waits, unseen, and she will meet it, it will meet her. There is no way of knowing what it will be. It does not know itself. But it will come into being.

A child calls her from downstairs. The doorbell rings. The telephone also rings. She hears her house living. She rises.

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