‘Aha,’ I said, for these words conveyed much meaning. They meant colourless, dowdy, poor and tedious. I could see her, this new wife. She made her own clothes and her wardrobe smelled of moth balls. Her feet smelled of feet for she could not afford much hot water to wash. I would not be one ounce surprised if her feet were flat. Her shoulders would smell of tears and the vomit of children.

‘Her name is Cynthia,’ said Monica. All my suppositions were correct, for what could a Cynthia be but tiresome? ‘Oh, yuk,’ I said, and for a moment Monica and I were in accord.

I got up early. To be truthful I hadn’t slept very well. To be absolutely truthful I was a tiny bit worried. I brushed my hair and it went crackle, crackle. I wasn’t very pleased with my hair—it wouldn’t shine because I had had a fever. It was going a bit grey when I looked at it closely. See how truthful I am being. Truthfully, I had forgotten what colour it really was. My aunts had hennaed it since I was a tiny little baby. It was due for a fresh application. Oh how troublesome everything could be. The curls were natural—oh, all right, I gave them a little help with the curling tongs when it was necessary, but basically they were real. Now the treacherous hair would not behave. I should have to wear a hat.

Where was Robert? Where was Robert? Where was Robert?

Of course he would telephone soon. He would telephone or just arrive at the house. He always did. No cause to worry. Nobody ever left Lili. Not for long. Well, almost nobody. I was certainly growing older, for there comes a time in life when you must face the truth. There are two times—once when you are very young and think in terms of absolutes; and then when you have spent your years lying a bit and scheming a little because you must survive, then the time comes again, when you no longer think in terms of absolutes. It had come. I didn’t really know why. Perhaps because once you no longer feel invincible the truth is all you have left...

I said to the woman—Oh, oh, whatever happened to the girl? Where had that girl gone?—I said to the woman in the looking-glass: ‘Pull yourself together, Lili.’ I spoke firmly. Peering closely I put lipstick on that woman’s lips, mascara on her eyelashes, powder on her nose. And there she was. The girl was back. I dressed her in a very simple frock of black jersey. A very simple Paris frock; and I pulled in my stomach, for the girl had had no stomach at all, and I didn’t want to let her down.

‘All dressed up and nowhere to go, eh?’ said Monica as I came into the kitchen. An irritating remark, you must agree. ‘Where’s Robert?’ she asked, as I ignored this conversational gambit.