I watch your heads disappear past banks of peonies and sweet William, tall columns of hollyhocks and delphiniums. My baby is asleep in his crib, quiet at last. I should have liked to stride out with you along the cliff path and feel the stiff breeze blowing off the sea. I should have liked to stop and gaze at the basin of undulating blue. Now I might have turned my attention to your conversation. I could have joined in your discussion of Lytton’s book. I know my fretting over the baby annoys you. I know you wish I could leave him to settle by himself. I see your look of jealous disapproval every time I pick him up. There have been many disappointments since the birth. I have borne Clive’s panic as I have tried to give the baby to him, braved his irritation whenever the baby cries. I have watched Clive move steadily away from me. He no longer sleeps in my bed. You have become his ally. You vindicate his feelings, commiserate with him and spur him on.

Yesterday, as we were alone together, you accused me of forgetting you, my firstborn. Where were your kisses, your pettings? you demanded angrily, as I took the baby onto my lap. You insisted I had turned my back on you, had invited you to Cornwall without really wanting you there. You complained I had no right to call the baby Julian, Thoby’s first name. I was unkind and selfish and ridiculous to boot. Thoby was not mine to resurrect. You would get your revenge, you shouted as you left the room to look for Clive, I should not have things all my own way.

Was that it? The eye of the past winks at me, a reminder that its mysteries remain unsolved. I see now that Clive was a willing accomplice in your work of destruction. You accompanied him on his walks, beguiled him with your stories, seduced him with your coruscating prose. Strengthened by his guidance, your writing emerged as a powerful force. People started to hear of you. In some part of myself, I needed your triumph. I cradled my baby and took perverse comfort in knowing you were a success. Preoccupied with Julian, I had little energy for painting. While my ambitions lay dormant, I hoped your achievements might stand for us both.

You look extraordinary. Disguised as Cleopatra, you are wearing a golden headdress, a tight beaded bodice, and a long straight skirt. Your eyes and lips are so vividly made up that at first I do not recognize you. You have wound a bracelet on your bare left arm to look like a snake. People crowd round you.