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thing,’ he whispered.
        In a few minutes the Mozart concerto jigged jollity to its ending, and the only sounds in the room were her gasps for breath and the soft crackling of the fire.
        Later they went into the bedroom, and once in the night she got up to go to the loo, and gazed at herself in the bathroom mirror, searching for lines of depravity. She looked rather disappointingly the same except that her face was flushed, her eyes glazed. She wondered why she didn’t feel more guilty, then realized it was because she loved him.
        

CHAPTER FIVE
        
        
        ‘THAT was so gorgeous,’ she said next morning when they woke up.
        He grinned. ‘You’ll find it a perfect hobby, darling, and so cheap. I say,’ he added, ‘what’s your name?’
        She gave a gurgle of laughter.
        ‘Harriet,’ she said, ‘Harriet Poole.’
        ‘I’ve never had a Harriet before.’ He lay back and laughed, ‘Oh I’m just wild about Harriet,’ and then he pulled her down on top of him.
        For the next fortnight she had to keep pinching herself. Simon Villiers was her lover; the impossible had been 31 achieved. They hardly got out of bed, except for the occasional excursion to the Randolph for breakfast, or an excursion to Hinksey Hill to see what making love was like in the snow. Harriet found it extremely cold, and nearly died of a heart attack when a cow looked over the fence and mooed at her.
        Never in her life had she been so happy. Willingly she cooked for Simon, ironed his shirts rather badly, ran his errands, and submitted rapturously over and over again to his love-making.
        ‘You really do ad-dore it, don’t you?’ he drawled in amazement.
        The snow seemed here to stay. The ploughs came and scattered salt and sand on the roads, but the houses and the parks were still blanketed in whiteness. Harriet was doing absolutely no work. Simon had forbidden her to wear her glasses, so work gave her a headache anyway. She rang both Theo Dutton and Geoffrey and told them she’d got ‘flu. The weight fell off her; she lost over a stone living on wine and love.
        Never had she met anyone so witty, so glamorous, so glorious as Simon. Only one thing nagged her, at this supreme moment in her life: she felt unable to describe him adequately in her diary. There was an elusiveness about his character that she couldn’t pin down; he seemed permanently to be playing someone other than himself, and watching himself doing it at the same time. Although books filled his flat, he never appeared to read, except theatre reviews in the paper or the odd stage magazine. When he watched television he was far more interested in the techniques of the actors and actresses, and in who was playing whom, than in the story.
        It was only in the third week things started to go wrong. Simon had an audition in London with Buxton Philips. Not realizing it was early closing day, Harriet arrived too late to get his grey velvet suit out of the cleaners. She was shattered at the storm of abuse that broke over her when she got home.
        ‘But you’ve got hundreds of beautiful suits,’ she stammered.
        ‘Yes,’ hissed Simon, ‘but I wanted to wear this one,’ and he walked out of the house without even saying goodbye.
        Harriet was supposed to be writing her essay on the sonnets, but she couldn’t stop crying. In the end she gave up working, wrote a poem to Simon, and spent hours making a moussaka, which she knew he liked.
        He came back from London on the last train, if anything in a worse mood than when he left.
        ‘How did it go?’ she said nervously.
        ‘Bloody terrible! Buxton Philips didn’t show up.’
        ‘Oh no,’ wailed Harriet. How could anyone stand up Simon?
        ‘All I saw was some old bitch of a secretary. "Ay’m sorry, Mr. Villiers, but it’s always wise to ring Mr. Philips in the mornin’ to check he’s able to make it, he’s