'It's her,' said Viv. 'I know it is. I just know. And yes, perhaps she has forgotten me, and perhaps I oughtn't to bother her. It's just- I can't explain it. It just seems the right thing to do.' She looked at him, suddenly afraid she'd said too much. She wanted to say: 'You won't tell Duncan?' But what would that do, but make yet another secret?-a secret between him and her? You had to trust someone, after all; and perhaps he was right, and it was easiest to trust strangers… So she said nothing. She reached for one of the cakes and began to crumble it up. Then she turned her head, and gazed out into the street-gazed idly, now; not looking for Kay; still sure, in her heart, that she'd had that single chance and lost it.

But even before her gaze had settled a figure came sauntering along the pavement from the direction of Waterloo Bridge: a slim, tall, quite striking figure, not at all like a boy or a middle-aged man, with its hands in its trouser pockets and a cigarette dangling nonchalantly from its lip… Viv moved closer to the window. Fraser saw, and leaned to look too.

'What is it?' he said. 'You haven't seen her? Which one are you looking at? Not the tailored type, with the swagger?'

'Don't!' said Viv, moving back, reaching across the table to pull him back with her. 'She'll see.'

'I thought that was the point! What's the matter with you? Aren't you going to go over?'

She'd lost her nerve. 'I don't know. Shall I?'

'After you've put me through all this?'

'It's so long ago. She'll think I'm crackers.'

'But you want to, don't you?'

'Yes.'

'Go on, then! What are you waiting for?'

Again, it was the youth and the excitement in his blue eyes that made her do it. She got to her feet, and went out of the café; she ran across the street and reached Kay's side just as Kay herself had reached the cinema's swing doors. She took out the ring, in its cloth, from her pocket; and just touched Kay's arm…

It only took a minute or two. It was the easiest thing she'd ever done. But she came back to the café feeling elated. She sat, and smiled and smiled. Fraser watched her, smiling too.

'Did she remember you?'

Viv nodded.

'Was she pleased to see you?'

'I'm not sure. She seemed-different. But I suppose everyone's different from how they were in those days.'

'Will you see her again? Are you glad you did it?'

'Yes,' said Viv. Then she said it again. 'Yes, I'm glad I did it.'

She looked back over at the cinema. There was no sign of Kay now. But her feeling of elation persisted. She felt capable of anything! She finished her coffee, her mind racing. She was thinking of all the things she could do. She could give up her job! She could leave Streatham, take a little flat all to herself! She could call up Reggie! Her heart jumped. She could find a telephone box, right now. She could call him up and tell him- What? That she was through with him, for ever! That she forgave him; but that forgiving wasn't enough… The possibilities made her giddy. Maybe she'd never do any of these things. But oh, how marvellous it was, just to know that she could!

She put down her cup and started to laugh. Fraser laughed, too. But his smile had a frown mixed up in it; and as he looked her over, he shook his head.

'How extraordinarily like your brother you are!' he said.

The house, when Helen got home that night, was empty. She stood in the hall, calling Julia's name-but became aware, even as she was calling, of a sort of deadness to the place. The lights were off; the stove and kettle, up in the kitchen, were quite cold. Her first, wild, idiotic thought was, Julia's gone; and she went with a feeling of dread into their bedroom and slowly drew back the wardrobe door, certain that Julia's clothes would have all been cleared away… She did this before she'd taken her own coat off, and when she saw that Julia's clothes were still there; that none of her suitcases was missing; that her hairbrush and jewellery and cosmetics were all still scattered on top the dressing-table, she sat awkwardly down on the bed and shook with relief.

You bloody idiot, she said to herself, almost laughing.

But then, where was Julia? Helen went back to the wardrobe. After a little calculation she worked out that Julia had gone out in one of her smartish dresses and one of her nicer coats. She'd taken her decent-looking bag, as opposed to her scuffed one. She might have gone to visit her parents, Helen thought. She might be out with her literary agent or her publisher. She might be with Ursula Waring, said a gnomish voice, from a dark, grubby corner of Helen's mind; but Helen wouldn't listen to that… Julia would be out with her editor or agent; probably her agent had rung up at the last minute, as he often did, and asked her to run into the office and sign some paper-something like that.

If that were the case, of course, Julia would have left a note. Helen got up and took her coat off-quite calm, now-and began to look around the house. She went back to the kitchen. Beside the pantry, hanging up from a nail, they kept a hinged brass hand with scraps of paper clasped in it, for writing lists and messages on; but all the messages gripped in it now were old ones. She searched the floor, in case a scrap of paper had fallen out. She looked on the kitchen counters and shelves and, finding nothing, began to look in all sorts of other, improbable places: in the bathroom, under the cushions on the sofa, in the pockets of one of Julia's cardigans… At last she could feel her searching taking on an edge of panic or compulsion. Again that grubby voice rose inside her-just pointed out to her that here she was, picking her way through bits of dust like an imbecile, when all the time Julia was out with Ursula Waring or some other woman, laughing at the very thought of her-

She had to thrust this voice back down. It was like pressing down the spring of a grinning jack-in-the-box. But she wouldn't give in to thoughts like that. It was seven o'clock, an ordinary evening, and she was hungry. Everything was perfectly all right. Julia had gone out without expecting to be so late. Julia had been delayed, that was all. People got delayed, for God's sake, all the time! She decided to start cooking their dinner. She gathered together the ingredients for a shepherd's pie. She said to herself that by the time the pie had gone into the oven, Julia would be home.

She put the wireless on as she cooked, but kept the volume very low; and all the time that she boiled water, fried the mince, mashed the potato, she stood quite tensely, listening out for the sound of Julia's key being put in to the lock of the door downstairs.

When the dish was ready, she didn't know whether to keep on waiting for Julia or not. She served it up on two plates; she put the plates to keep warm in the oven, and slowly did all the washing-up and the drying. Surely by the time she'd finished that, Julia would be back, and they could sit down and eat together…? By now she was starving. When the washing-up was done she got her plate back out, put it to rest on top of the stove, and began to pick at the potato with a fork. She only meant to eat a morsel or two, just to blunt her hunger; she ended up eating the whole thing-eating it like that, standing up, with her pinnie on, with the steam running down the kitchen window, and the man and the woman, out in the yard, starting up a fresh argument, or a new version of an old one.

'Work it up your arse!'

She'd been so long in the bright kitchen, when she went out into the rest of the house she found it gloomy. She moved swiftly from room to room, turning on lights. She went down to the sitting-room and poured herself a glass of gin and water. She sat on the sofa and got out her knitting; she knitted for five or ten minutes. But the wool seemed to catch at her dry fingers. The gin was souring her mood, making her clumsy, unsettling her. She threw the knitting down and got to her feet. She wandered back up to the kitchen-still looking, vaguely, for some sort of note. She reached the bottom of the narrow staircase leading up to Julia's study. The urge came over her to go up there.