‘He is terribly taken up with his exhibition, Monica,’ I said, in the serious tones I used when speaking of work or money.

‘All night?’ asked Monica.

‘Very possibly,’ I said. ‘He has to spend much time with the gallery owner. They were quite probably up all night.’ Monica knew nothing of the world of art so she couldn’t argue. It was maddening for her.

‘What do you want for breakfast?’ she inquired, sounding rather grudging. I thought I might take the opportunity to have a real English breakfast—bacon and eggs—but I wouldn’t have been able to eat it. Not all of it, and Monica would be cross with me.

‘I will have just a croissant and some coffee,’ I said.

‘We don’t have croissants in Croydon,’ said Monica, and by now she sounded rather grim. ‘And until I get round to putting in an order at Selfridges we don’t have any coffee beans. Will Nescafé do?’

Oh. I should have to be careful. Monica was under strain. Probably she found Margaret recalcitrant. I must be good. Two difficult females under her roof would be more than she could endure. Stupid people, contrary to popular belief, are not good at endurance like dumb animals. They crack and behave unfairly, blaming the innocent for things they haven’t done. I said, like a sweet and grateful innocent, that I would love a cup of Nescafé and a weeny-teeny bit of toast. With perhaps a little marmalade. She was already making toast, so that was all right.

‘I’m taking Margaret her breakfast in bed,’ she announced, rather, I thought, as a person might remark that she was going to find a leper and give him a smacking kiss. A martyr in search of martyrdom. I would have offered to take up the tray myself, but my coffee would have gone cold, and we all know how much I hate cold coffee. Can’t abide it.

‘It’s easier in the end,’ she said, slapping toast on a plate. ‘Better than having the kitchen full of people first thing in the morning with the day ahead.’

There were many responses I could have made to this. I could have asked why we did not break our fast in the dining-room. I could have asked why it mattered, having the kitchen full of people. I could have pointed out that every morning the day lay ahead, and there was really no reason to mention it, for I needed no reminder. But would that have been wise? No, it would not. So I ate my toast very carefully and brushed up the crumbs with my finger. The telephone rang and I forgot about the crumbs and flew to answer it. It would be Robert calling, for it had to be Robert. I willed it to be Robert and it was. So that was all right.

‘Did I hear the phone?’ asked Monica, when she came down. I was in trouble again—answering her telephone.