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know which way was shops, could not remember his rehearsal of the map, or which way he had walked in the disorientating rain. He took a handful of pills from his enormous washbag, swallowed with a shudder.
    Yes, he needed a guide. He was not in a state to be fussy, or to preserve an element of his own kind of snobbery; he needed to be led. Is that what it is, Henry? You are a snob, you know. He closed his eyes for the sound of her voice. Francesca Chisholm, with the cut glass British accent, talking about living in a castle and calling him a snob.
    'He first deceased; she for a little tried / To live without him, liked it not, and died,' Maggie Chisholm recited.
    That was not the way it was supposed to be, especially if the he in question was not actually dead. She, being an emancipated creature of the twenty-first century, might have pined for a bit, but then she would think of the compensations, such as freedom, and then she would get on with it. She would realize, after a while, that life was more than an emotional vacuum; that is what she would do. There would come a point when she stopped sitting in her rented room late at night writing him recriminatory letters which were always addressed to herself. She would never seek to rely on men and she would sink herself in her work. Only that, at the moment, was difficult.
    This office where Maggie sat was remarkably free of comforts, which in the normal course of events she would not notice since comfort was not a priority, but in the cold lack of light of a February morning, a lumpy seat was no aid to concentration already impeded by just that tiny touch of hangover and the presence of a number of cardboard files which felt damp to the touch. In another era, she would have insisted on changing things, shouted or murmured disapproval, assumed an air of authority, whichever seemed appropriate to seek an improvement in her lot or the state of her chair, but this was not the place, or the time.
    She signed a letter with a flourish, wincing at the sight of the typing with the faint letters and the occasional misspelling, corrected by her own fair hand in the same blue as her signature.
    Margaret F. Hooper, her married name, used wanted at this point in her life was a lifelong professionally, the signature sloping over the page towards the bottom left corner, as if too, was on the run. That would do for now. Nobody would notice her absence for an hour. Part-time jobs were not important.

    She was killing time; she did not want to do anything that carried weight. What she really at this point in her life was a lifelong contemplation of the sea, doing absolutely nothing.
    Maggie lit a cigarette and watched the smoke rise and descend in an unequal battle with the cold air of the room. Bugger you Philip; why did you leave me? Why, oh why, oh why?
    He could have been a help, but now she had no choice. She would go to the pier. The sinking pier was good for the soul, because it was rotting. From start to end, it was the same length as the Titanic. She would shiver and chill and postpone awkward things, eat breakfast at the caff, back within the hour. She bolted from the back room to the front door, pulled it behind her with full force. It was a large door and the slam reverberated through the building, making her departure less than circumspect.
    She paused to wipe the brass plaque with the sleeve of her coat; the thing was a disgrace, but then, so was a door to a solicitor's office which was so difficult to open and close in winter that it required the firm application of a boot or shoulder to deal with the warp. Not the kind of behavior to be encouraged amongst the ranks of those in desperate search of legal advice, precisely the category she wished to avoid. Ten in the morning, the place far too populous for her liking; too many familiar faces in this street.
    She was born and raised in this town, escaped it, came back ignominiously and did not, at the moment, want to be acknowledged.