Fuck Caro, he thought viciously. He twisted away from Claire’s touch and ripped back the warmth of the duvet, making her gasp. He got up.

‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘I want to …’

An odd thrill it gave him, to hear some kind of need in her voice. Of course the need was not sexual. Reassurance: that was all she wanted. A chance to make amends for how she had treated him before, going off with Caro, gossiping perhaps. Drink had made her sentimental enough to offer what she thought he wanted. But she was wrong, wasn’t she? He didn’t want this: drunk sex with no talking, during which she would probably – also because of the beer – begin to cry, and which stood no chance of giving her pleasure, because, as she’d told him endlessly, alcohol dulled her nerves. She was crying now. The wet snuffling sounds had begun. He didn’t care. Let her cry about rejection for once, instead of crying because he’d made her reject him. It was a more honest kind of sorrow. It might even do her some good.

April came; May with its foamy blossoms. They had not slept together now for almost five months, but lately it had been as much his decision as hers. Sitting in the ugly winged armchair, in the silence of the empty flat, he asked himself: am I strategising? Am I deliberately withholding my desire in a bid to make her come to me? He looked inwards, but found no desire to withhold. The urgency had gone. It ought to have worried him. Was this the onset of depression? He’d always associated the loss of sexual pressure with depression, but he could not say that he was especially depressed. If anything, life had been easier for the past few weeks. Both he and Claire had felt more even-keeled. Even hearing of Caro’s antics had needled him less. And though he was not purposely trying to provoke it, Claire had been inching towards him again, touching his arm more often, even hugging him from behind when he was washing up, as he’d used to hug her.

She was never going to write about him in the notebook. He saw that now. He would never be inducted into her hall of fame – not while they were still together. Some notion of propriety endured; something, at least, resisted exposure. But did her refusal to write about him mean she would never gain perspective on their life together? Never be able to view David as directly, as honestly, as the rest? If not, what hope did they have?