She went to bed, or so I thought. I stayed downstairs for a while longer to empty the ashtrays and fetch a couple of bottles of cold mineral water, and a little vase in which I’d placed a single flower from the garden. As I entered the bedroom she came out of the bathroom, still dressed and now avoiding my eye, rather ominously.

“Room service,” I said, and placed the bottle and the flower on her bedside table. “I’d have brought a chocolate for your pillow but you’re all out of chocolate. You’re out of a lot of things actually. There’s almost nothing in your cupboards. Like you’re going away somewhere.” I turned down her bed. “You know, anyone looking at me now could get the very wrong idea that I liked you a lot. That and the fact that I’ve had extensive hotel experience. Did I ever tell you I used to own a hotel? It was a dump in Dachau. Yes, that’s right. Dachau. It’s no place for a hotel. Not anymore. But that was all a long time ago.”

“Leave that,” she said.

“And risk losing my job? I don’t think so.” I smiled. “Would you like fresh towels?” I was talking too much because I didn’t want her to say anything that might be something I wouldn’t like. I was right, too.

She didn’t undress. She sat beside me on the bed, with her knees drawn up underneath her chin and looked thoughtful and then very awkward. She reminded me of an unhappy schoolgirl.

“Stop fussing, please. Sit down. Listen.”

I dropped down on the bed and found my stomach had beaten me to it. Suddenly the scent of Mystikum made me feel sick and I had the sense that for me, from now on, it was always going to be the scent of disaster.

“What is it?”

“You’re right. There is something I’m not telling you. Please forgive me.”

“That’s easily done.”

“I wasn’t going to tell you tonight but since you’ve raised it, perhaps now is best. Well, it’s like this. I’m sorry. But I just can’t do this anymore.”

“Do what?”

“Be with you, Walter. Sleep with you. Fuck you. Be your lover.”

I stiffened. “I’m sorry to hear that, Anne.”

“I’m sorry, too.”

“Is there anything I can do to change your mind?”

“Look, I’ve decided to go back to London.”

“I’ll take that as a no. What about your book?”

“I’m going to give the advance back.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’ve decided it’s not—it’s not what I want to write anymore. I don’t think it ever was. Anyway, it’s not working for me. None of this. So, I’m leaving here. Soon. The sooner the better. Tomorrow. Probably first thing.”