‘It’s lovely to see you, Anna,’ said Marion, after waiting for Anna to say something. ‘Would you like some tea?’

‘No,’ said Anna, rousing herself. But it was too late, Marion was already out of the room and in the little kitchen next door. Anna followed her.

‘Such a lovely little flat, how I love it, how lucky you were to live here, I wouldn’t have been able to tear myself away.’

Anna looked at it, the charming little flat, with its low ceilings, its neat gleaming windows. Everything was white, bright, fresh. Every object in it caused her pain, because these small smiling rooms had held hers and Michael’s love, four years of Janet’s childhood, her growing friendship with Molly. Anna leaned against a wall and looked at Marion, whose eyes were glazed with hysteria while she acted the role of a tripping hostess, and behind the hysteria was a mortal terror that Anna was going to send her home and away from this white refuge from responsibility.

Anna switched off; something inside her went dead, or moved apart from what was happening. She became a shell. She stood there, looking at words like love, friendship, duty, responsibility and knew them to be all lies. She felt herself shrug. And as Marion saw the shrug real terror claimed her face and she said: ‘Anna!’ It was an appeal.

Anna faced Marion with a smile, which she knew to be empty, and thought well, it doesn’t matter in the slightest. She went back into the other room and sat down, empty.

Soon Marion came in with the tea-tray. She looked guilty and defiant, because of the Anna she had expected to face her. She began with a great fussing of teaspoons and teacups, to put off the Anna that was not there; then she sighed, she pushed away the tea-tray, and her face went soft.

She said: ‘I know Richard and Molly told you to come and talk to me.’

Anna sat silent. She felt she would sit silent for ever. And then she knew she was going to begin talking. She thought: I wonder what I’m going to say? And I wonder who the person is who will say it? How odd, to sit here, waiting to hear what one will say. She said, almost dreamily: ‘Marion, do you remember, Mr Mathlong?’ (She thought: I’m going to talk about Tom Mathlong, am I, how odd!)

‘Who’s Mr Mathlong?’

‘The African leader. You remember, you came to see me about him.’

‘Oh yes, the name slipped away from me for the moment.’

‘I was thinking about him this morning.’

‘Oh were you?’

‘Yes. I was.’ (Anna’s voice continued calm and detached. She listened to it.)

Marion had begun to look conscious and distressed. She was tugging at a strand of loose hair, winding it around her forefinger.