'I wish she hadn't,' said Helen. 'I was awful, today. I was worse than a child. I was-' She couldn't finish. She made some gesture, as if to brush away the memory of her own behaviour.

'Never mind,' said Julia gently. She lifted her glass. 'Here's how. Bung-ho. Cheerio.-And all those other idiotic things people say, that always make me feel I'm about to go off on my last mission… Touch top and bottom, for luck.' They clinked glasses, twice; then drank. The wine was rough, and made them grimace.

They moved apart. Helen cleared a space for herself among the cushions on the divan. Julia perched on the arm of the pink velvet chair, stretching out her legs. Her legs seemed impossibly slender and long, in the flannel trousers; her hips had a fragile, vulnerable look-as if, Helen thought, you could place your two hands upon them and, with a pressing motion, make them snap. She'd picked up the ashtray, and now reached to the mantelpiece for cigarettes and matches. Her sweater rose up as she did it, and her shirt was unbuttoned at the bottom; the tails of it parted, exposing her tense, sallow stomach, her neat navel. Helen looked, then at once looked quickly away.

One of the cushions fell from the divan to the floor. Helen leaned and picked it up again-and realised, as she did it, that it wasn't a cushion but a pillow; that the divan must serve, in this two-roomed flat, as Julia's bed; that every night Julia must stand here, lay down sheets and blankets, take off her clothes… The image was not exactly erotic, for one saw beds, pillows, nightclothes, everywhere, they'd long ago lost their charge of intimacy, of sex. Instead she found it poignant, faintly troubling. She looked again at Julia's handsome, fragile figure and thought, What is it about Julia? Why is she always so alone?

They were sitting in silence. Helen found she had nothing to say. She gulped down more of her wine, then became aware of noises on the floor above: irregular steps, and creaking boards. She put back her head and looked up.

Julia looked up too. 'My neighbour's a Polish man,' she murmured. 'He's only in London by some sort of fluke. He walks about, like that, for hours. Every piece of news he gets from Warsaw, he says, is worse than the last…'

'God,' said Helen. 'This wretched war. Do you really think it's true, what everyone says? That it'll be over soon?'

'Who knows? If the Second Front kicks off, then perhaps. But I'd say we were in it for another year at least.'

'Another year… So I'll be thirty.'

'And I'll be thirty-two.'

'The worst sort of ages, don't you think? If we were twenty, we'd get over it, we'd still be almost young. And if we were forty, we'd be old enough not to mind being older still. But thirty… I'll have gone from youth to middle age. What will I have to look forward to? The Change of Life, I suppose. They say it's worse for childless women… Don't laugh! At least you'll have achieved something, Julia. Your books, I mean.'

Julia drew in her chin, still smiling. 'Them! They're like so many crossword puzzles. I only wrote the first one, you know, as a sort of joke. Then I discovered I was rather good at them. What that reveals about me, I can't imagine. Kay's always said that it's a queer thing to do-writing about murder, just now, while so many people are being murdered all around us.'

This was the second or third time that they had mentioned Kay's name; but they both seemed struck by it, now, in a way they hadn't been before. They sat in silence again. Julia swirled the wine in her glass, gazing fixedly into it like a fortune-teller. Without looking up, and in a different sort of voice, she said, 'I never asked you. What did Kay make of our running into each other like that, that day?'

'She was glad,' said Helen, after a second.

'And she didn't mind us meeting up again? She won't mind your coming round here, tonight?'

Helen sipped her drink and didn't answer. When Julia looked up and caught her gaze, she must have coloured or seemed guilty. Julia frowned. She said, 'You haven't told her?'

Helen shook her head.

'Why not?'

'I don't know.'

'You didn't think it worth mentioning? That's fair enough, I suppose.'

'No, Julia, it wasn't that. Don't be silly.'

Julia laughed. 'What, then? Do you mind my asking? I'm curious. But I'll shut up about it, if you'd rather. If it's something, you know, between you and Kay-'

'It's nothing like that,' said Helen quickly. 'I told you, Kay was pleased to hear we'd met up. She'd be pleased, too, to think we've gone on meeting.'

'Are you sure?'

'Of course I'm sure! She's so very fond of you; and that makes her want me to like you, too. It always has.'

'How big of her. Do you like me, Helen?'

'Well, naturally I do.'

'There's no naturally about it.'

'Unnaturally, then,' said Helen, making a face.

'Yet you won't tell Kay?'

Helen moved uncomfortably. She said, 'I ought to have, I know. I wish I had. It's just, sometimes, with Kay-' She stopped. 'It sounds childish, ungracious. It's just, the way Kay is with me-taking such care of me. It makes me long, now and then, to keep things from her, even commonplace, trifling things. Just so that those things can be wholly mine…'

Her heart was fluttering as she spoke: she was afraid that Julia would hear the flutter in her voice. For even as she said all this, and meant it, she knew that it wasn't quite the truth. She was trying to make the whole thing be about something else. She was playing it down, using words like commonplace and childish. She was trying to pretend that there wasn't that fine, invisible, vibrating thread telling her when Julia moved, when Julia breathed…

Perhaps it worked. Julia smoked her cigarette for a time, looking thoughtful, but without speaking; then she ground the cigarette out and got to her feet. 'Kay wants a wife,' she said. She smiled. 'That sounds like a children's game, doesn't it? Kay wants a wife. She always has. One must be the wife with Kay, or nothing…'

She yawned, as if bored by the idea; then went to the window and drew back the curtain. There were little chinks, Helen could see, in the grey talc boards, and she put her eye to one of these and peered out. 'Don't you hate these evenings?' she said. 'Not knowing if the Warning will sound, and so on? It's like waiting for an execution that might or might not take place.'

'Would you rather I went?' Helen asked.

'God, no! I'm glad you're here. It's much worse when one's alone, don't you think?'

'Yes, much worse. But bad in the shelters, too. Kay always wants me to go over to the one in Rathbone Place; but I can't stand it, it makes me feel trapped. I'd always rather sit and be petrified on my own, than have strangers see me being frightened.'

'Me, too,' said Julia. 'Sometimes I go out, you know. I like it better in the open space.'

'You just go strolling,' Helen asked her, 'in the black-out? Isn't it dangerous?'

Julia shrugged. 'Probably. But then everything's dangerous, just now.' She let the curtain fall and turned back into the room, and reached for her glass.

Helen felt her heart begin to flutter again. It occurred to her that she'd far rather be with Julia outside, in darkness, than in here, in the soft, exposing, intimate light. She said, 'Why don't we go out now, Julia?'

Julia looked at her. 'Now? You mean, for a walk? Would you like to?'

'Yes,' said Helen. She felt the wine inside her suddenly, and started to laugh.

Julia laughed too. Her dark eyes were shining, with excitement and mischief. She began to move more quickly-putting back her head to drink off her wine, then carelessly setting down the glass on the mantelpiece, so that it rang against the painted marble. She looked at the fire, then squatted in front of it and began to shovel ash on