I cannot stop the pictures from forming in my mind. I push my stick into the river and watch the water eddy round it in fast-moving circles. If I close my eyes all I see is Duncan’s face, smiling as he leans close to Peter. I step into the water and feel the icy cold seep into my shoes. The river is shallow near the bank and brown with mud. I walk forward, noting the rise in the level of the water. I stay close to the bridge, using its mass to screen me from view. It would be disastrous if anyone were to witness what I am about to do. I feel calmer now that I am in the water, as if the cold is slowly numbing my pain. This is what I desire. Not to feel anymore. Not to long for what I cannot have. I keep going until I am in the center of the river. The water is deeper here and I let the current catch hold of me. I surrender willingly as the river pulls me from my feet.

The persistent ringing of the doorbell brings me to my senses. I put my hands over my ears to block out the sound. I stare at the trail of muddy footprints my shoes have left on the floor, and wait for the intruder to leave. My clothes are torn and my legs and arms are covered in scratches. I raise my hand to my forehead and when I take it away my fingers are sticky with blood. Slowly, I recall the anesthetizing chill of the water. I remember the force of the current hurtling me toward the bridge, its vast underbelly looming ahead of me, the heave of the river tossing me into its grid. I do not know how long I remained wedged there, desperate to plunge back in. All I could think of was Duncan’s declaration during the lunch with Peter that he could never make love to me again. I stared at the racing water and longed to be released into its embrace. Yet something—fear was it?—held me back. At some point I must have crawled, panting and exhausted, along the broad beam of a girder and hauled myself up onto the bank.

The ringing stops. There is a moment’s silence, then I see your face at the window. Suddenly I remember. It is Sunday morning, the day you said you would come. You peer into the room. At last you find me and wave. I shrink into the shadows but it is useless. You go round to the French windows and let yourself through. When you realize the state I am in you hurry to my side.

“Nessa, darling. Whatever’s happened to you? You’re soaking wet. And covered in blood. Have you had an accident?”

I cannot answer.

“Did you fall in the river?”

Still I say nothing. Gradually the truth dawns on you.