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?

Right now she was meeting her mentor in the department, to discuss what her next research project would be now that Lady Mary Shepherd was done. He had prepared her for it thoroughly, had sent her off as determined as she got. After that, she was going to Caro’s to help her write an application for a visiting fellowship. The afternoon opened up in front of him, hours in which to read the notebook at his leisure. But he felt, for the first time, misgivings; not enough to prevent him from looking, just enough to cause some delay. A bar of pale sun had fallen through the window. He watched it creep across the carpet, showing the crumbs. There hadn’t been any direct sunlight in that room for months. The days were lengthening. The summer would begin – what passed for a summer this far north, endless light and little heat.

He rose sluggishly and went to the bedroom and got down beside the bed. He pushed his hand under the mattress. For a moment, he thought the notebook wasn’t there. Was that – was he glad? Far away, his fingertips grazed the edge. He pulled back. It could have been one of the buttons that studded the mattress. A protruding spring. Could he convince himself of that?

He could not. He drove his hand deeper and grasped the notebook firmly and pulled it out. He turned to the end.