'It was a mistake, buying this junk. We should have stuck to the new stock. London seems to have a surfeit of bookshops. And God knows why I let you talk me into buying all that left-wing stuff upstairs. No one wants it. The left wing already have enough cosy haunts in this neighbourhood and it only repels the other buyers. Those pamphlets are just gathering dust. I must have been mad.' She knew that he wasn't referring only to the left-wing literature. The injustice stung her into anger. She knew even as she spoke that it was folly. He needed to be cajoled, humoured, comforted. The quarrels which he seemed increasingly to provoke only left him sulky and resentful and herself exhausted. But she had had enough.

'Look, you didn't take on this place to oblige me. You were just as keen to get out of Pottergate. You loathed teaching. Remember? I was fed up with it, I admit, but I wouldn't have resigned if you hadn't made the first move.'

'You mean, it's all my fault.'

'All! What all? It isn't anyone's fault. We both did what we wanted.'

'Then what are you complaining about?'

'It's just that I'm tired of being made to feel as if I'm some kind of encumbrance, worse than a wife, as if you're only keeping on the shop because of me.'

'I'm keeping it – we're keeping it on – because there's no alternative. Pottergate wouldn't take us back even if we applied.'

And where else could they apply? He didn't need her to tell him about the unemployment in the teaching profession, the expenditure cuts, the desperate search for jobs even by the best qualified. She said, knowing even as she spoke that argument was folly, that it would only fuel his irritation:

'If you do chuck it, it'll please Stella. I suppose that's what she's been waiting for. She can say "I told you so" and hand you over, neatly trussed, a sacrificial victim to dear Daddy and the family business. My God, she must be praying for our bankruptcy! It's a wonder she doesn't lurk outside counting the customers.'

His protest was sulky rather than vehement. It was, after all, an argument they had had before. 'She knows I'm worried, obviously. She's worried herself. She has a right to be. Half of the money I put in here was hers.'

As if that needed saying. As if she didn't know exactly how much cash from Daddy's generous allowance Stella had graciously handed over. And that was generous of her, generous or stupid or cunning. Or all three. Because she must have known that Colin was going into partnership with his mistress, she wasn't that blind. Oh, she'd known all right! She couldn't understand what he saw in Roma – she wasn't unique in that – but she'd known the score. And had this been her revenge, the money to set up a partnership which was bound to fail, given their inexperience, their small capital, their self-delusions; a failure that would draw him back, suitably chastened, to the place where he belonged, the place, come to think of it, that he'd never really left? And then what would there be for him but Daddy's business, the store in Kilburn which sold cheap plywood furniture on hire purchase to customers too ignorant to know when they were being cheated or too proud in their poverty to rummage round the street markets and buy good solid oak, second-hand. The stuff he dazzled them with, cocktail cabinets, room dividers, ornate suites would fall or be kicked to pieces long before they'd finished paying for it. Was that what Colin wanted to do with his life? Had he left teaching for that? And had Stella thought all this out for herself or had Daddy a hand in it? The money she had lent them, hadn't it been carefully calculated, enough to make the enterprise possible but not enough to enable them to succeed? She was sharp enough. She had a shrewd little mind to go with those sharp painted nails, those white, childlike teeth. And she had other weapons, Justin and Joanna. Possessiveness and acquisitiveness had been sanctified by maternity. She had the twins. And, by God, she knew how to use them! With every childhood infection, every school speechday, every dental appointment, every family holiday, every Christmas demanding his presence at home, it was as if she were saying: 'He may sleep with you, play at keeping shop with you, imagine that he's in love with you, confide in you. But he'll never give you children. And he'll never divorce me to marry you.' Appalled at her thoughts, at what was happening to them, she cried:

'Look, darling, don't let's quarrel. We're tired, we're hot and it's a bloody day. On Friday we shut the door on the whole scene and take off for Courcy Island. Three days of peace, sunshine, good wines, first-class food and the sea. The island's only three miles by two-and-a-half, so Clarissa says, but there are marvellous walks. We can get away from the rest of the party. Clarissa will be busy with the play. I don't suppose Ambrose Gorringe will care a damn what we do. No creditors, no people, just peace. And, my God, don't I need it.'

She was going to add, 'And I need you, my darling. More and more. Always.' But then she looked up and saw his face.

It wasn't an unfamiliar look, that mixture of shame, irritation, embarrassment. She had seen it before. This, after all, had been the pattern of their lives, the plans so confidently, so happily made, the last-minute cancellations. But never before had it mattered so desperately. Tears scalded her eyes. She told herself that she had to stay calm, that she mustn't break down, but when she could speak the note of angry recrimination was unmistakable even to her own ears and she saw the look of shame harden into defiance.

'You can't do this to me! You can't! You promised! And I've told Clarissa I'm bringing my partner. It's all arranged.'

'I know and I'm sorry. But Stella's father telephoned at breakfast to say that he's coming for the weekend. I've got to be there. I've told you what he's like. He was pretty fed up about my leaving teaching. We've never got on. He thinks I don't appreciate her enough; you know how it is with an only child. He's not going to be pleased if he finds I'm away for a long weekend leaving her to cope with the kids. And he won't believe the story about attending a book sale. I don't think even Stella does.'

So that was it. Daddy was arriving, Daddy who paid the twins' school fees, provided the car, the annual holiday, the luxuries which had become necessities. Daddy who had his own ideas about his son-in-law's future.

She said in a voice that was almost a wail:

'What is Clarissa going to think?'

'Well, isn't it rather what she'd think if I did come? She knows I'm married. I mean, you must have let that drop. Wouldn't it look rather odd, the two of us arriving together? And it's not as if we could have shared a room or anything like that.'

'By anything like that I suppose you mean that we couldn't have slept together. Why not? Clarissa isn't exactly a model of purity and I don't suppose Ambrose Gorringe creeps down his corridors at night checking that his guests are in their own rooms.'

He muttered:

'It's not that. I explained. It's Stella's father.'

'But this weekend might have freed you from him and her. I thought we could have spoken to Clarissa, told her about the shop, asked if she couldn't help. That's why I wangled the invitation. After all, a third of her money comes to me if she dies without a child. It's all in Uncle's will. It wouldn't harm her to part with some when it's most needed. We'd only be asking for a loan.'

She tried not to see the hope brightening in his face. Then it faded. He said sulkily:

'I couldn't ask a woman for money.'

'You wouldn't have to. I'd do the asking. What I thought was that she'd meet you, like you. She'd be seeing you under the best possible conditions. Then I could speak to her when the time seemed right. It's worth a try, darling. Even twenty thousand would mean all the difference.'