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with none of the ability to maul or scratch. Nothing had been said, neither in her flat (where she hid her shopping from him), nor in his, where he had nursed her more than a little following the ministrations of obsessive Charles Tysall. They had survived a hot summer of healing wounds, a companionable winter of hot toddies, laughter and warm blankets and he had thought she was his for ever.
    He should have known how no man is allowed to assume anything. In the spring, he could feel her straining the leash, like the dog guided away from the daffodils. He could feel the numbness of loss from the moment of realization when he began vainly arming himself. He must not carp, he must not complain, he must not.
    He could never go back to what he was before and if he loved her, he must let her go with grace, make himself run into the distance without complaint.
    `Where the hell have you been?' he said peevishly as she let herself in at eight o'clock. So much for grace. Grace is a virtue, virtue is a grace, Grace is a dirty girl who will not wash her face.
    `Your father sent us some wine,' she said, humbly. 'He and I went out for a drink.'
    There was a pause when both of them turned to the task in hand, she to taking off her jacket and making a fuss of the dog whose greetings took precedence over all other formalities, he to watching rice boil, while both privately, desperately considered whether they could get away with another evening of pretending nothing was happening. Ready to eat and fill the air with smells and brittle conversation, drink to cure emotional indigestion, pray that neither would say anything real. She came into the kitchen, followed by dog.
    `Your father has a job for me. Norfolk, somewhere.' She was ultra casual, foraging for food. 'So I'll be away.' She shrugged her shoulders as if she had no choice. 'Don't know how long.'
    Malcolm stirred the rice unnecessarily, hiding his face in the steam.
    `That'll suit you fine, won't it? You must have persuaded him. No-one litigates in Norfolk. What does he want you to do, go and dig up Charles Tysall? Pay your last respects?'
    `Charles was buried in London. Your father gave me the client's address. You know how vague he is on that subject. I honestly don't think he even registered it was anywhere near . . . Old client, he says.' He turned on her, his face hot, his throat choking and his eyes full of salt and water.
    `My own father, who professes to love me, enters the conspiracy! Well, well, well. As if you needed help to escape. You've been detaching yourself from me for three months, only you don't know how to say. Am I right?' He tried to keep his voice light. `Right.'
    `Don't say sorry, will you?' He poured a glass of wine with a shaking hand, then stuck a piece of kitchen roll near his eyes as if it was the heat which troubled him. The day had been long and hot; he was hungry.
    Ì would say sorry since I mean it, but not if you'd prefer I didn't. Listen, Malcolm, it's nothing you've done or haven't done: I love you and I owe you, but I can't breathe.'
    He was an articulate man, a large, kind man who liked to cook, a patron of defenceless animals, a natural lover, and all he wanted to do was hit her. He caught that look of mute terror in her eyes and heard the warning growl of the dog before he knew that one arm was bunching the front of her dress in his fist, while the other arm was raised, ready to inflict the futile blow which would never connect.
    Malcolm slumped, let his arms drop to his sides.
    Ì love you, Sarah,' he said. 'I love you to pieces. I'd never hurt you.'
    Ì'd better go,' she said, the terror still in her eyes.
    `Yes, you'd better. Just go.'
    She went with door closing softly behind her, the dog pawing against a panel already ruined with her claws. Malcolm's appetite for anything went with her. The dog slunk back and pressed her wet nose into his groin, waiting for him to be pleased. Instead he pushed her away with his hand so tightly around her