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        ‘Simon Villiers’s wife is not beautiful in the classical sense, but there is an appealing sensitivity, a radiance about this brilliant young playwright.’ Unthinkingly she pulled out the plug.
        Simon walked into the bathroom, yawning, hair ruffled, to find Harriet sitting in an empty bath, dreamily gazing into space.
        ‘I thought I told you to leave the fucking water in.’ Harriet flushed unbecomingly.
        ‘Oh God, I’m frightfully sorry. Perhaps there’s some hot left.’
        There wasn’t.
        Even worse, she went into the kitchen and found that, although she’d turned on the oven, she’d put the moussaka into the cupboard instead, so when Simon came in, shuddering with cold and ill-temper, there was nothing to eat. The row that followed left her reeling. He really let her have it. She had no defences against the savageness of his tongue.
        Once more she went and sobbed in the bedroom, and she heard the front door slam. Hours later when he came back she had cried herself to sleep. He woke her up.
        ‘You’re too sensitive, Harriet baby. You overreact all the time. Poor little baby,’ he said gently, ‘poor, poor little baby. Did you think I wasn’t coming back?’ Never had he made love to her so tenderly.
        

CHAPTER SIX
        
        
        HARRIET woke up feeling absurdly happy. True love could only be forged on rows like that. It was the first of March, her meagre allowance had come through. She got up, leaving Simon asleep. She cashed a cheque at the bank, and bought croissants and orange juice. In spite of a bitter east wind, the snow was melting, dripping off the houses, turning brown and stacked in great piles along the road.
        It would be spring soon. She imagined herself and Simon wandering through the parks with the blossom out, or punting under long green willows, and dancing till dawn at a Commem ball. All great love affairs had their teething troubles.
        When she got back to Simon’s rooms, she took his mail into his room. He was still half asleep, so she went to the kitchen and made coffee and heated up the croissants. She was worried about a large spot that was swelling up on the side of her nose. However much make-up she put over it, it shone through like a beacon; she must start eating properly.
        When she took breakfast into his room, he had woken up and was in excellent form.
        ‘Buxton Philips’s written me a letter saying he’s sorry, he’s coming down to Oxford to take me out to lunch,’ he said, draining a glass of orange juice.
        ‘Oh darling, that’s wonderful,’ said Harriet.
        Simon drew back the curtains. Harriet sat down on the bed, with the spot side furthest away from him, pouring out coffee.
        ‘I think you’d better start packing, darling,’ he said, liberally buttering a croissant.
        ‘Oh God, is your mother coming to stay?’
        He shook his head, his face curiously bland. ‘I just think it’s time you moved out.’
        She looked at him bewildered, the colour draining from her face.
        ‘But, why? Was it because I smashed your dog, and letout your bath water, and forgot about your suit, and the moussaka? I’m sorry. I will try to concentrate more.’
        ‘Darling, it isn’t that,’ he said, thickly spreading marmalade. ‘It’s just that all good things come to an end. You should live a little, learn a bit more about life, play the field.’
        ‘But I’m not like that, I’m a one-man girl.’
        Simon shrugged his shoulders.
        ‘W-when will I see you,’ she was trembling violently now. ‘You’re making this very difficult for me,’ he said gently. She sat down.
        ‘Mind my shirts,’ said Simon hastily, removing the shirts she had ironed from the chair.
        She stared at him. ‘What did I do wrong?’
        ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, you didn’t do anything wrong.’
        It must be a bad dream, it must