I insist: ‘When you said, not being split is just going to be a question of doing one’s work well, etc., well you could say that of Rose next door.’ ‘Well, yes, I could, and do.’ I can’t believe he really means it, and I even look for the gleam of humour that surely must accompany this. Then I see he does mean it; and again I wonder why it is only now, after I’ve said I’m leaving the Party, that these discordancies begin between us.

Suddenly he takes the pipe out of his mouth and says: ‘Anna, I think your soul is in danger.’

‘That’s more than likely. And is that so terrible?’

‘You are in a very dangerous position. You are earning enough money not to have to work, due to the arbitrary rewards of our publishing system …’

‘I’ve never pretended it was due to any special merit of mine.’ (I note that my voice is shrill again, and add a smile.) ‘No, you haven’t. But it’s possible that that nice little book of yours will go on bringing you enough money not to work for some time. And your daughter is at school and doesn’t give you so much trouble. And so there’s nothing to stop you sitting in a room somewhere doing nothing at all very much except brood about everything.’ I laugh. (Sounding irritated.) ‘Why are you laughing?’ ‘I used to have a schoolteacher, that was during my stormy adolescence, she used to say: “Don’t brood, Anna. Stop brooding and go out and do something.”’ ‘Perhaps she was right.’ ‘The thing is, I don’t believe she was. And I don’t believe you are.’ ‘Well, Anna, there’s no more to be said.’ ‘And I don’t believe for a moment you believe you are right.’ At this he flushes slightly and he gives me a quick hostile glance. I can feel the hostile look on my face. It astounds me that there’s this antagonism between us suddenly; particularly as the moment has come to part. Because at the moment of antagonism, it’s not so painful to part as I expected. Both our eyes are wet, we kiss each other on the cheek, hold each other close; but there’s no doubt the last argument has changed our feeling for each other. I go into my own office quickly, take my coat and my bag and go downstairs, thankful that Rose is not around, so that there’s no need for explanations.

It is raining again, a small tedious drizzle. The buildings are big and dark and wet, hazed by reflected light; and the buses are scarlet and alive. I am too late to be at the school in time for Janet, even if I take a taxi. So I climb on to a bus, and sit surrounded by damp and stuffysmelling people. I want more than anything to have a bath, quickly. My thighs are rubbing stickily together, and my armpits are wet. On the bus I collapse into emptiness; but I decide not to think about it; I have to be fresh for Janet. And it is in this way that I leave behind the Anna who goes to the office, argues interminably with Jack, reads the sad frustrated letters, dislikes Rose. When I get home the house is empty so I ring up Janet’s friend’s mother.