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moved—subtly—closer to him. He looked at me. Coldly. Knowingly? Then he stood up. “I think I can see Elizabeth. Excuse me, Ruth.”
    Was there an ambivalence? In the words? Or had I been given a signal? “Keep a distance.” Had he absorbed me, Ruth? Or simply recognised my purpose?
    Sometime after that I suffered a mild illness. When I left hospital I felt weary. And as Dominick persisted with his entreaties, I thought of surrender. To him. In marriage. Why not?
    My secret life, with its thrilling labyrinthine ways and fierce cacophony of voices—my own surface voice, its contradictory echo and the imagined voice of my victim—enthralled but increasingly weakened me.
    My work, never the centre, became more and more peripheral. “Making my way” in publishing was neither necessary to me financially nor of profound interest to me intellectually. I had proved to myself that I had the ability and the discipline to succeed in my chosen field. My life’s ambition, however, lay elsewhere.
    And Dominick was, in his way, appealing. I enjoyed his adoration. He was totally within my control. The idea, once considered, grew more powerful. And Dominick, sensing victory, made a sudden assault of great intensity. Flattered, and not a little exhausted, I succumbed.
    We were married quietly in London. Lexington had already had its triumphant wedding day. I did not want to be the second bride.
    But later I was again pre-empted. Elizabeth became pregnant. Her son, Stephen, born after a cesarean operation, brought extraordinary joy to both Elizabeth and Hubert. Their flat was re-organised for the new baby, and Hubert’s return to Paris was postponed. The proud father—the happy husband—remained pure.
    And Stephen became a catalyst for William, who was born almost two years later by easy vaginal delivery—a son for me and for Dominick. Now Dominick had everything he wanted. The woman he loved, and a son. Is it any wonder that I sometimes sought to punish him?
    I was, however, a good mother. A dedicated mother. When I looked at William I ceased to think. I discovered in myself a desire to worship. Porcelain perfection, bathed by me and then dressed again. The impenetrable mystery of cries and silences, and eyes that gazed back in flat knowingness.
    Later, a tough, sturdy mobility, moving towards me. Then, old sounds made new. Mostly for me. Surely it should have been enough. For me. For anyone. But then it never has been.
    When the maternity nurse left, everything to do with William was done by me. Dominick was both surprised and elated by this.
    I knew my love for William entranced him. So there was solace for Dominick. I kept a balance for him. It seemed only fair.
    Having bought the adjacent studio flat, with great care to maintain his beloved harmony of dimensions, Dominick created a space of order and symmetry for his beautiful wife and child.
    Against a backdrop of white walls, he placed, in careful patterns, a geometry of furniture. At angles, touching, cream chaises-longues, a circle of black chairs, a perfect rectangle of low wooden tables with wrought-iron legs—old Indian tables, he told me. An antique globe dominated one end of the living room and a magnificent telescope stood at the other.
    William’s room was small, buttercup yellow. On his bed, impossibly coloured green cows and shepherds seemed to chase each other through a yellow field of flowers. He found them soothing, and grasped his soft cover to him like a rag-doll lover, one who offers no resistance.
    Our bedroom was a subtle contrast of blues and navy. Dominick created, behind a hidden door—I have a key—a long walk-in dressing room for me. Along one side, on racks, were the clothes that wrapped round the body Dominick adored. My shoes stood in neat, colour-coded battalions. On open shelves, my carefully folded sweaters sat softly, one on top of the other, an organised rainbow of black and cream