I suppose she really thought she’d never have to tell me about the ruddy Schloss or whatever, or the mother and the hairy brothers. She’d just keep that all to herself. Her little fantasy. Didn’t reckon on cruel governments and passports. She’d have got herself into a dreadful muddle in time: and me. And as if I cared anyway. I love her; she must know that. I don’t give a tinker’s gob what her name is. He lit a cigarette, cupped the lighter flame in his hand lest he waken her. As long – he blew a stream of smoke high into the still night air – as long as she doesn’t revert. Change back into the Prussian po-faced creature I saw. All that long hair and the neat row of nasty little pearls round her neck. Like those spotty English Debs getting engaged in Country Life.

‘My dear!’ Decca used to say. ‘Take a look at the retouching, for gawd’s sake! And those awful long English teeth, throats like corduroy. They always marry Guards Officers from Windlesham.’

Decca.

Didn’t say much about Decca, did I? Or Jeremy. Just enough to make her feel happy and ‘quits’. Didn’t go into the turgid bits, the Chekhov elements, LSD, shooting the dog, the frenzies, all the rest of it. Just enough to make her feel we were sort of ‘twins’.

‘We both ran away then?’ she had said.

We both ran away. So we need each other. I wonder why it took her so long to tell me? Or why it took me so long to tell her? Guarding our lives? Secrecy. Why? Perhaps she thought I’d be furious and clear off, slamming the door. Perhaps she thought I was a Communist, or a Trendy-Lefty. You never know. I’m not. But I don’t ever remember that we’ve discussed politics. Perhaps she thinks I am? I’ll have to tell her.

Telling. Telling all.

Funny how she couldn’t bring herself to tell Cuckoo about Gus Bender and the Studio. What we did there. I wouldn’t either. Now why? It’s not a question of trying to deceive, not that. I just couldn’t say it aloud to Cuckoo. I’m not ashamed of it; I talked to Minerva happily enough; no qualms. But somehow she isn’t quite as, what? Vulnerable? Why do I feel that? Why not just come out with it and say? She’d very likely laugh her head off. Terribly amusing: do admit?