‘You don’t have to come,’ he said. Maybe I didn’t, but I was. I was going to stay very close to Robert for a while. We’d been playing a dangerous game. Time to stick together until the boat stopped rocking. I didn’t want either of us straying anywhere; not alone. It appeared there was a gallery in Edinburgh which had expressed interest in his work and he was going to discuss the possibility of another exhibition. I vowed that, in future, I too would take a greater interest in his work. I’d follow him round and hold his brushes.

Scotland was cold.

I had bought whisky and biscuits as presents and a large, warm red coat for Lili. A very expensive, large red coat. It suits me. ‘Robert,’ I had said, ‘I don’t care what you say, I’m not going to freeze to death for want of a warm red coat. You can sell an extra picture.’

Margaret was pleased when we came back. She must have missed me. She wanted to talk and I felt sorry for her. It must have been so boring when we went away and she was left on her own with Monica. She had a funny idea of social chitchat, mind you. She was always talking about age and death. Well, not always, because she didn’t talk all that much but when she did she usually talked about age and death. I hope she didn’t do it because she thought I was the expert. I also had a tendency to talk about age and death when I felt tired. I do us both an injustice. Margaret knew I wasn’t as silly as I seemed to some people.

‘You mustn’t worry about age,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Oh, listen to me. Listen to Lili, whistling in the dark. Would Robert love me when my teeth fell out? What if my hair fell out? Would children have kept us together for ever? No, of course not. It was people without children who stayed together for ever. I told her to keep up appearances. Loads of makeup. Expensive clothes. Avoid the elderly. Stick with the young. Oh Lord, what an awful thought—tottering round on your poor swollen old feet, keeping up with the hopelessly, madly boring young.

The young are so moral and principled and full of high ideals. I hate them. I didn’t say that. You’d be surprised if you knew how sensible I can sound when I talk. You should ask Margaret. I gave her a lot of good advice. I said a number of wise and sensible things. We had an excellent conversation until Monica butted in and that was the end of that. Monica was not only incapable of conversation—she made everyone else start sounding like mother’s little idiot child. It was infuriating. Down went the tone of my elevated conversation.