Robert was in a rage. He claimed several reasons for this rage—good and sufficient reasons, he said—Croydon, and gallery owners and such things—and me. ‘Oh nonsense, Robert,’ I said. ‘It will all be all right on the night.’ Monica had put on some scent. ‘Be nice to Monica,’ I said in his ear, and I pulled it because I was glad he was there, after all. He gave me what I can only describe as a cold look, which I ignored, but he did set about being nice to Monica. He sat down beside her and conversed—mostly about past events, for that was all they had in common, apart from their humanity, which didn’t offer much in the way of social chit-chat. I was, I confess, relieved that Robert was there. He wouldn’t have left me for ever, wouldn’t have left me for long, but when they’re not there you can never be absolutely certain—either as to where they are or whether they truly will be coming back. Not absolutely certain; not unless they have huge possessions and a special chair and slippers that they mind about. Our life wasn’t like that. Even the house at home was more mine than Robert’s. All that held Robert to me was me, and while that should have been sufficient (and indeed was really) sometimes when my hair wouldn’t shine and I looked in the looking-glass in the cold grey light—well, sometimes I wondered just a little. Just a very little.

I was so glad to see Robert making his effort and being nice to Monica that I’d hardly taken any notice of Syl. He hadn’t changed. He was just the same. Same clothes, same face, same Syl. ‘How well you look,’ I said. I meant well-preserved, for that was the impression he gave. He had put his arm about Margaret’s shoulders and she moved away towards me saying, ‘What were you like when you were young?’ What a question out of nowhere! Why did she ask it? Did I look a hag? Was I perhaps decaying under her eyes? Monica heard too and seemed to take it personally. ‘Do grow up,’ she said to her child,’ which was ironic when you think about it, since she was offended at the suggestion she was no longer young and the more Margaret grew the older she’d be. But then Monica was never what you could call logically-minded.

‘I take care of myself,’ said Syl. ‘I like to keep fit.’

This conjured a melancholy picture of Syl jumping up and down, beating his arms around and pouring with sweat.

‘Press-ups?’ I asked gloomily and felt his biceps. ‘Mmm,’ I said.

‘You look well too,’ he remarked without conviction. Syl and I had got off on the wrong foot with all this talk of health and youth. There was an antisocial air of competitiveness, regret and envy floating about. You’d never have thought—well, never mind!