I didn’t go to bed at all last night. After I got to the end of Biologie, when she kissed Philip, I stayed sitting on the floor until dawn. Leaning against the wall. Dozing, waking, picking up a notebook, rereading, re-rereading. Holding the pages to my face, to try to feel her. Putting her handwriting against my cheek.

Even the last page, where his name is written, I held against my face.

—

Next door the telephone rings. Tom. I hurry to answer, a pit yawning inside me.

But the caller is Clive. “James, we’re about to start.” His voice is cheerful, raised against the noise of a busy classroom. “Are you on your way?”

The school. I’m supposed to be there with Clive, telling the children about Advent, which is fast approaching.

“No, I’m . . . I’m unwell. I’m terribly sorry, Clive. I can’t come.”

“Okey-doke. Not to worry!” He must be surrounded by teachers, curious children. Before he cuts the line I hear him say, “Oh dear, Mr. Acton’s tied up, so let’s make one big group . . .”

I feel no consternation or guilt. The school, Clive, the children: they all seem, to my mind, to be in a distant country.

—

Early afternoon, I think, judging by the light outside. I’m wearing my coat and Wellingtons, searching my pockets for the dog lead.

“Stand by, Bailey. We will shortly be going on a trek.”

It’s too far for him, he’ll probably peg out halfway, but I don’t want to leave him here. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. Once we are outside the house I spend some time on the doorstep rubbing my face with my hands, rubbing my head, as if to clean some matter off me, some cobwebs perhaps or clinging dust.

—

She remembered the apples at Alver Shore. The ones I brought into the house after we came back from the hospital, hoping she would like them. She turned her face away. Something childlike about the gesture, as if along with her baby she’d been robbed of all her adult comportment. Célia said, “She doesn’t want them, James,” and I straightaway took the apples back outside. Early the next morning I stripped the branches and gave the fruit away in boxes to all comers.

Her face in repose became a mask of tragedy, eyes and mouth yanked down at the corners. I saw this expression whenever she didn’t know I was looking at her.

Oddly overdone, she wrote about me. Like a highly trained double. I can almost hear her voice. It would be funny if it wasn’t me she was talking about.