‘Tall, red and beautiful.’

‘Give us a bedtime story then,’ said Gail. ‘What’s she like?’

Louise, dipterous girl born in flames, 35. 34 22 36. 10 years married. 5 months with me. Doctorate in Art History. First class mind. 1 miscarriage (or 2?) 0 children. 2 arms, 2 legs, too many white T-cells. 97 months to live.

‘Don’t cry,’ said Gail, kneeling in front of my chair, her plump ringed hand on my thin empty ones. ‘Don’t cry. You did the right thing. She would have died, how could you have forgiven yourself that? You’ve given her a chance.’

‘It’s incurable.’

‘That’s not what her doctor says. She can trust him, can’t she?’

I hadn’t told Gail everything.

She touched my face very softly. ‘You’ll be happy again. We could be happy together couldn’t we?’

Six in the morning and I was lying in my saggy rented double bed with Gail Right sagging beside me. She smelled of face powder and dry rot. She was snoring heavily and would be for some time to come, so I got up, borrowed her car, and drove to the phone box.

We hadn’t made love. I’d run my hands over her padded flesh with all the enthusiasm of a second-hand sofa dealer. She’d patted my head and fallen asleep, which was as well since my body had all the sensitivity of a wet-suit.

I put the money in the slot and listened to the ringing tones while my breath steamed up the barren phone box. My heart was over-beating. Someone answered, sleepy, grumpy.

‘HELLO? HELLO?’

‘Hello Elgin.’

‘What time do you call this?’

‘Early morning after another sleepless night.’

‘What do you want?’

‘Our agreement. How is she?’

‘Louise is in Switzerland. She’s been quite ill but she’s much better now. We have had good results. She won’t be back in England for some time if at all. You can’t see her.’

‘I don’t want to see her.’ (LIAR LIAR.)

‘That’s good because she certainly doesn’t want to see you.’

The phone went dead. I held on to the receiver for a moment, staring stupidly into the mouthpiece. Louise was OK, that was all that mattered.

I got into the car and drove the deserted miles home. Sunday morning and no-one around. The upstairs rooms were tightly curtained, the houses on the road were still asleep. A fox ran across my path, a chicken hanging limply from its mouth. I would have to deal with Gail.

At home there were only two sounds: the metallic ticking of the clock and Gail’s snores. I closed the door on the stairs and left myself alone with the clock. In the very early morning the hours have a different quality, they stretch and promise. I took out my books and tried to work. Russian is the only language I’m good at, which is a help since there aren’t that many of us competing for the same jobs. The Francophiles have a terrible time, everybody wants to sit outside a Paris café and translate the new edition of Proust. Not me. I used to think that a tour de force was a school trip.