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isn’t convenient. Let’s talk after the operation.”
    â€œThat might be too late.”
    â€œToo late for what?”
    â€œFor a lot of things. Can’t you see that I’m terrified that you might be planning to chuck me? You’re making a big change, aren’t you? Perhaps you’re thinking of getting rid of more than your scar.”
    It was the first time in the six years of their relationship that they had ever spoken the word. A taboo never acknowledged between them had been broken. Getting up from the table, the bill paid, she tried to keep the note of outrage from her voice. Without looking at him, she said, “I’m sorry, Robin. We’ll talk after the operation. I’ll be taking a cab back to the City. Is there anywhere that you would like to be dropped?” That was usual. He never travelled by underground.
    The word, she realised, had been unfortunate. He shook his head but didn’t reply and followed her in silence to the door. Outside, turning to take their different ways, he suddenly said, “When I say goodbye I always fear that I may not see that person again. When my mother went to work I used to watch from the window. I was terrified that she might never come home. Do you ever feel that?”
    â€œNot unless the person I’m parting from is over ninety and frail or suffering from a terminal illness. I’m neither.”
    But as they finally parted she paused and for the first time turned to watch his retreating back until he was out of sight. She had no dread of the operation, no premonition of death. Mr. Chandler-Powell had said that there was always some risk in a general anaesthetic, but in expert hands that could be discounted. Yet, as he disappeared and she turned away, she shared for a moment Robin’s irrational fear.

5
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    By two o’clock on Tuesday 27 November Rhoda was ready to leave for her first visit to Cheverell Manor. Her outstanding assignments had been completed and delivered on time, as they always were. She was never able to leave home even for a single night without rigorous cleaning, tidying, emptying of bins, locking up of papers in her study and a final check of internal doors and windows. Whatever place she called home had to be immaculate before she left, as if this punctiliousness could guarantee that she would return safely.
    She had been sent instructions for the drive to Dorset with the brochure about the Manor, but as always with an unfamiliar route, she listed the route on a card to be placed on the dashboard. The morning had been fitfully sunny but, despite her late start, getting out of London had been slow and by the time, nearly two hours later, she had left the M 3 and joined the Ringwood Road, darkness was already falling and with it came heavy squalls of rain, which within seconds became a downpour. The windscreen wipers, jerking like living things, were powerless to cope with the flood. She could see nothing ahead but the shine of her headlights on rippling water which was fast becoming a small torrent. She saw few other car lights. It was hopeless to try to drive on, and she peered out through a wall of rain, looking for a grass verge which might offer firm standing. Within minutes she was able to drive cautiously onto a few yards of level ground fronting a heavy farm-gate. At least here there would be no risk of a hidden ditch or soft wheel-sucking mud. She turned off the engine and listened to the rain battering the roof like a hail of bullets. Under the assault the BMW held a cloistered metallic peace which intensified the tumult outside. She knew that beyond the cropped invisible hedgerows lay some of the most beautiful countryside in England, but now she felt immured in an immensity both alien and potentially unfriendly. She had switched off her mobile phone, as always with relief. No one in the world knew where she was or could reach her. No cars passed and, peering through the windscreen, she