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hung back, maintaining an unsmiling reserve amid the hilarity.
    Later the three of us sat on a windowsill in the yard at the back of the house and Vera talked more about New York. She was quiet now, serious, maudlin, very drunk. She repeated herself, she made grandiose claims, she declared New York the greatest city in the history of the West and produced several reasons why. Jack listened intently. Impatiently he cut in, he asked her questions about the city, about the art that was being produced there, and became ever more thoughtful as he pondered what she told him. Then he asked her what New York
looked like,
he wanted her to talk about the architecture, and there was more in this vein—he wanted to know what things
cost
—and when at last we left the party, the damp streets of Camden Town, the industrial brick chimney towering black against the night sky, and the rain slanting through the lamplight—it all seemed as gray and mediocre and
finished
as Vera had earlier said it was. It was an important night, largely because of this idea of New York as a shimmering, dynamic focus of restless energy, of unfettered creativity, of artistic freedom, and limitless aspiration—
    Vera took my hand in both of hers and warmly told me we were going to be great friends. Jack she took by the lapels of his overcoat, and for several embarrassing seconds they kissed noisily on the doorstep, him with his hands rummaging round inside her coat until I loudly coughed.
    I will never forget the fevered conversation we had on the way home, a conversation which continued for most of the next thirty-six hours. It was momentous, and it changed the course of all our lives, this is no exaggeration. When Jack met Vera two days later it was just the two of them. They were in the back of the Salisbury, in Covent Garden, at a small brown table with peeling varnish and black cigarette-burns all over it. The pub was quiet, late morning, and a beam of sunlight full of swirling smoke came shafting down. Vera sat with her hands clasped about a large gin-and-tonic and told him she was a married woman.
    —I know that, he said.
    Up came those sleepy eyes, thick with smudged mascara, small gods of humour sporting about the painted mouth.
    —I know all about Gordon, he said.
    He was apparently a piece of work, this Gordon she was married to. We’d done a little research.
    —I don’t care about him, he said, I care about you.
    The gods of humour allowed the grin to split open, so the black slot showed, but only for a second. I realized she must have heard this before, and it was one of her games, it was as if she said to all her men, all right, you be the one to take me away from him, go on, do it. The difference, I’m afraid, was that Jack
was
the one.
    —I know you don’t love him.
    Apparently this provoked laughter. She pushed herself back in her chair and regarded him with some amusement and also, I think, no small amount of affection. I think by this time she was well taken with him.
    —Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to have some more drinks, then we’re going to a hotel.
    —To do what?
    —What do you think?
    He certainly had her full attention now. All this he had planned out beforehand, and discussed with me in detail. She leaned forward and put her elbows on the table.
    —And what are we going to do after that, Mr. Rathbone?
    —After that we’re going to a travel agent in the Strand and book passage to New York.
    I don’t believe any of her men had come up with a strategy like this one before. It seems she let out a loud shout of surprise. She slapped the table. She was intrigued. In some ways she liked being told what to do. She was a strong artist but a weak woman. The trick was knowing which was which.
    —But I’ve agreed to spend six months in England.
    —Then I’ll go by myself.
    At this point Jack, frowning, thrust his hands in his trouser pockets. Vera was staring at him, squinting and smiling at the same time.