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realised what she was doing and stepped hurriedly away.
    ‘I think you’re mistaken. I don’t think we've met.’
    The man stared at her, puzzled, his arm still raised and the unsettling smile still on his lips. They were rather thick lips, she noticed, and there was a boil on his neck.
    ‘No, we haven't met yet, petal, but I want to know all about you. How much do you charge?’
    Oh God. Understanding rose like bile in her throat. He thinks I'm walking up and down this street to solicit custom. She wondered whether to hit him with her parasol and then thought no, that will attract attention. And there is a man coming out of the doctor's surgery . . .
    ‘Get away from me! You've made a mistake. I'm not one of those women. Leave me alone!’
    The words sounded completely stupid, foolish, but what could one say? No one had ever approached her in that way before. She walked quickly away down the street and thank God, thank God the man did not follow. She could not walk very fast because she was still not fit, but no footsteps followed. As she went on down the street she came closer to number 40 and she saw the man who had come out cross the road in front of her. He reached the pavement on the other side and walked briskly back up the way she had come.
    A well-dressed, burly man in morning coat and top hat, with thick eyebrows and moustache, heavy jowls, and a hearty confident stride. She had not seen him for nearly a year but she recognized him — it was Martin Armstrong.
    She shielded herself from view with her parasol and walked to the end of the street. Her face was flushed and she was breathing deeply as though she had run a mile. As she stopped and looked back her legs trembled.
    Now what? The man with the newspaper was still there. He stared back up the street at her, then snapped his paper shut and strode angrily away, out of sight round the corner. Dr Armstrong was getting into a cab.
    I can't stay here, Sarah thought, I can't face that again. This is all a mistake, I'll just wait until Jonathan comes out and then I'll go home. I'll think about what to say to him later.
    After all, what can I say? I received this letter and then I followed you to your doctor and saw you go in and then waited until you came out, and a man accosted me in the street. What sort of an accusation was that?
    This is all nonsense. It's just a bad dream.
    The flush faded from her face and her breathing returned to normal. Martin Armstrong's cab had long gone, and the street looked peaceful and empty. A nanny was pushing a pram down one side, and a little boy was riding a tricycle on the pavement in front of her. The gas lights were coming on in some of the windows.
    Why hasn't Jonathan come out?
    When you go to the doctor's it's never the doctor who leaves first, it's the patient. Martin Armstrong came out five minutes ago, and Jonathan's still in there.
    Perhaps it's a partnership and he's seeing another doctor. So why did it say Armstrong in his diary?
    Grimly, she walked down the street for a fifth time, keeping her eyes open for the man with the newspaper. She had to see, she had to be sure. When she came to number 40, the brass plate was quite clear, as she had known it would be. Dr Martin Armstrong, M.D. Private consultations. No partner, no one else.
    She stared at the front door, willing it to open, willing her husband to come down the steps towards her, to smile and put his arms round her and tell her it was all right. She thought if he did she might put her arms round him and kiss him on the lips. As she had not done for months.
    Or slap his face right there in the street. She didn't know which.
    Either way, she didn't have to choose. Nothing happened.
    There was a light on in the hall but no lights on in the downstairs rooms, which were surely the consulting rooms. There were net curtains in the rooms up above, and window boxes and gaslight, but they were too high to see in. Most of the rooms had gaslight showing and somewhere she