Paper crackling, dumped in a chair—stomping down her pink-walled hall—there was a moment with just this texture, not long ago: Ted cut Frieda’s hair. Last month, back for his clothes. The last time she saw him. He cut Frieda’s hair in a bob. She walked in from the grocer’s, baskets on each arm, and exploded—how dare he cut her child’s hair, make any decision about the children he’s abandoned, without asking her? She’d sobbed then, her face hot and furious—Ted herding the babies out the door—cursing him on her knees on the kitchen floor, pinching up wisps of Frieda’s shorn hair from under the high chair, fat tears plopping on the green lino. She’d been pathetic, a fool—as if anything he did could touch her. As if he held any power over her.

There’s the white high chair and beyond, glowing radioactive at the center of her kitchen, the round oak dining table where they’ve eaten every meal since they moved to Court Green. Assia’s table, poisoning her house with its toxic vibrations. No wonder she can’t eat, her wedding ring rattling on the bone. She’s been poisoned. Assia’s planted her malediction at the heart of Sylvia’s house, and it’s been leaching noxiously for a year.

Assia’s table in her house. It’s a shock every time she thinks of it, as if seeing someone else’s face stare back from the mirror. She and Ted had agreed to store a table at Court Green for the couple who took over their lease on the Chalcot Square apartment. A young poet and his wife, David and Assia Wevill. Assia, who has succeeded in seducing Ted. Who pretended friendship with Sylvia, all the while plotting to steal her husband. Could you take our big table? The black lashes fluttering, smutty with mascara. It’s too big for the flat, and I’ll be happy to think of your family gathered around it.

The ring. The snails. The table. Sylvia’s been triply cursed, but it can’t touch her; she’s risen beyond petty subterfuge. The table, she decides, goes next. First, the snails. She opens the icebox and locates the last of Ted’s jettisoned Guinness. She stabs at the bottle tops with an opener and wheels, a bottle in each fist, the cold of the glass a relief against her feverish left thumb.