And all the time, of course, I told myself that I could change my mind when it came to the point. I was not committed to anything. I let Monica go on fussing—about the wedding and the wedding guests and the food and the wine and the clothes—and occasionally I felt a little mean for it was all to come to nothing, but mostly I let her go on as though I were in a dream. As though in one of those dreams where impossible things happen together, at the same time. I seemed to leave my body as a jinnee leaves a bottle and floats above all the people, invulnerable, omnipotent and—not to be trusted. Everybody knows that the jânn can’t be trusted. They share with man the promise of salvation but they go round at night doing bad things. It wasn’t my fault. I hadn’t let myself out of the bottle, had I? Robert had uncorked the bottle with his infidelity; or maybe it was Margaret with her hopeless trust; or maybe it was the sprite Peri or Lilith and I had liberated myself on huge wings of rage. Also, to be honest, I foresaw some fun. I knew I should cause the most alarming scene but scenes can be such fun—especially years later when the dust has settled and the blood dried. It would come as a shock to Monica, but by then the exhibition would be all over and it wouldn’t matter any more. Besides, Monica’s sensibilities wouldn’t be so refined if she hadn’t been so stuck-up in the old days. I could have taken her to places to see all manner of things that would have done a good deal to broaden her mind. She’d always said she didn’t care for that type of thing—said it with her nose in the air. Some of us had been unable to avoid that type of thing. Who did she think she was? A dancer has to dance in some strange places. Then sometimes I remembered her when she hadn’t been so annoying. When she was a girl sometimes she was fun. And sometimes, every now and then, I remembered a tiny little thing in a little sashed frock and that was Margaret, and I would think that such a little one should never, never be invited to step into a dancing house in Cairo. I was not getting sentimental. It merely seemed unsuitable. Syl would not have seemed out of place in such an establishment. Especially not since…oh, never mind.

We practised wearing our wedding clothes, and I adjusted Monica’s collar under her chin and asked how the winter- flowering cactus was coming along, and I smiled into her eyes.

Oh God. Derek and Cynthia arrived with Cain and Abel and their potty. No, I do not regret not having had any children. I hate the small creatures. They cried and whined in tiny voices like the voices of caterpillars. Oh, the poor little things. No, I won’t be sorry for them. I won’t. I couldn’t afford pity. I hadn’t got the time for it.