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sat so long that supper came as a positive relief. We gathered in the dining room wondering if we were supposed to sit where we’d sat last night, but I decided to link up with Agnes, and Courtney rapidly escaped from Nyree to join us.
    We speculated in under-voices about the menu. I suggested we might get sausages in batter, Toad being one of the cooks. Agnes giggled like a thirteen-year-old.
    But I was ashamed when the food did appear. The team had produced an imaginative antipasto, followed by spaghetti and two sorts of sauce – traditional Bolognese and a spicy vegetarian one. Then the
pièce de résistance
.
    Toad’s chocolate creation – to call it a mere pudding would be to underrate it – was ambrosia. No, that would be to confuse it with something out of a tin. Manna, then. There was this wonderful crunchy topping of amaretti biscuits mixed with the darkest, bitterest continental chocolate you can imagine. Then, when you thought nothing could be more blissful, you found the chilled, sweet, creamy chocolate and rum interior.
    â€˜People have murdered for less,’ whispered Agnes.
    We ate in silence. Then the plate came round again. I helped myself and, in a belated effort to establish better relations with Gimson, offered him the plate.
    â€˜Absolutely not,’ he said, covering his plate with a well-manicured but oddly brutal hand. ‘Lethal in at least ten different ways. Allow me to enumerate –’
    â€˜Oh, please don’t!’ Toad gulped. ‘I never meant …’
    Matt accepted another portion, but Kate declined, saying that chocolate gave her migraine.
    â€˜All the more for the rest of us,’ said Courtney. ‘I’m sure you’d like extra,’ he said bravely to Nyree.
    She managed to make each mouthful an erotic experience. Finally, with a little-girl widening of the eyes, she raised the whole plate to her mouth and started to lick.
    But then, in the lounge, she became involved in an exchange with Matt. Although she should have been reeling with calories and wine – we’d started a kitty to buy a few bottles for supper each night – she wanted him to drive to the village and buy her more gin. He was scheduled to read aloud from his poems and short stories, he was saying. He clearly implied she’d had more than enough anyway.
    â€˜But Matt, darling, you know I need a drink. A real drink.’ She put a scarlet fingertip on his throat, circling it round his Adam’s apple. Then she tiptoed the first two fingers up to his beard. At last she hooked her little finger in lock of grey and tipped his chin towards her.
    â€˜Nyree! For goodness’ sake!’ he began, waving his hands as if to fend her off without having to touch her.
    â€˜Who said anything about goodness, sweetie?’ She ran her spare hand down his side till it rested on his buttock. She pulled his hip towards her.
    â€˜Nyree!’
    At this point, right in the middle of the lounge, she kissed him hard on the mouth. The little finger remained where it was. The other hand did not.
    No one spoke; no one moved – embarrassment? Prurience? The sheer impossibility of doing anything remotely useful? Then Kate opened the door. She stopped on the threshold. Everyone looked at her.
    â€˜Ah, Nyree,’ she said, ‘are you going to share that whisky I bought for you this morning? I’ve organised glasses.’
    Nyree abandoned Matt. She walked steadily, elegantly, to the door, which Gimson held open for her. I happened to look from her face to his. For the first time I understood that he might be a good doctor. Compassion, even tenderness, softened his mouth and eyes.
    He didn’t follow her. He quickly rearranged his features and claimed the only comfortable chair in the room.
    We shuffled the rest into a circle, and begged Matt to start reading.
    He read beautifully. We were all willing him to, of course, and relaxed as his voice grew in