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    ‘It was never-never land, Lindy. Face facts.’
    ‘I’ve had a few set-backs, that’s all. That estate agent was fired. I haven’t had time to look at any hovels yet, but I’m going to. I…’
    ‘And when you described this idyll, Lindy, was I unkind? No, I was not; I was encouraging, patient. And why? Because I knew the real reason behind this sudden desire to up sticks and change your life…’
    ‘Will you stop this? Markov, that’s enough …’
    Lindsay sank her head in her hands. She was beginning to regret, deeply regret, having asked Markov and his lover Jippy to Sunday lunch. She had done so partly because she was fond of them both, partly because they happened to be in London, and mainly because Sunday, that family day, was now the hardest, the loneliest, the most interminable day of the week.
    With a sigh, she raised her head and inspected her pleasant and familiar sitting-room. This apartment had been her home for eighteen years; formerly, it had been occupied by Lindsay, her son Tom, and her difficult mother, Louise. Now difficult Louise, astonishingly, had remarried and moved out; Tom was in his second year reading Modern History at Oxford. Thanks to their absence, the room was depressingly tidy. Markov and his friend Jippy, who was sitting beside him, but remaining silent as always, would soon be leaving; then the apartment would also be depressingly quiet. Lindsay feared this.
    Even that quietness, however, might be preferable to Markov’s present unrelenting assault, now moving in a most unwelcome direction. In a moment, Lindsay thought, a name—a forbidden name—would be mentioned. She embarked on a few more displacement activities, caught the glint of Markov’s pretentious dark glasses and sat down. She glared at the glasses, which Markov rarely removed; maybe he would be merciful, she thought. He was not.
    ‘ Rowland ,’ he said. ‘The name Rowland McGuire was mentioned; several times, sweetheart—which was progress. Which was honest, at least. Because let’s face facts, honeybunch—that man is at the back of this.’
    ‘I never mentioned Rowland,’ Lindsay cried, hearing a familiar defensive note enter her voice. ‘Well, maybe once or twice, in passing. Can we stop this conversation? All right, I said I intended to make some changes in my life. I’m making them, Markov. In my own way, at my own pace.’
    ‘ Pace ?’ Markov gave a snort of derision. He looked at his watch and rose to his feet. ‘ Pace ? Lindy, we are talking sluggish here. We are talking snail; we are talking limpet . We are talking chronic inertia and galloping indecision. We are talking one millimetre every other century…’
    ‘Give it a rest , Markov.’
    ‘And why? Because of a man. Because of that man. Lindy, you have to cure yourself of that man, and do it fast. As far as that man is concerned, you, Lindy, are invisible . You are less than a speck on the very distant horizon. When are you going to accept that?’
    ‘I have accepted it. I’ve nearly accepted it.’
    ‘Lindy, I’m now going to be brutally honest.’ Markov drew himself up. ‘You, Lindy, are not his type . Now, God knows what his type is , but it isn’t you. I think he’s a fool, Jippy thinks he’s a fool, but there you are. Three years ago, I thought we could bring him around, make him see sense. I put a lot of time and energy into that project, Lindy, if you remember…’
    ‘I do remember. Much good it did.’
    ‘Precisely. Nada . Zilch. So the time has come, Lindy, my love, to cut your losses. You have to hitch a ride, darling, to a different city on the highway of life…’
    ‘Markov, please . Give me a break .’
    ‘And you have to leave that son of a bitch behind in the parking lot. Am I right or am I right?’
    ‘You’re right, and he isn’t a son of a bitch; he’s good, he’s kind, he’s clever, he’s handsome, he’s nice.’
    ‘He’s blind .’ Markov became stern. ‘What you need, Lindy, is some