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176 pages, Hardcover
First published July 1, 1984
‘Two four six eight, bog in don’t wait,’ said Dexter.
‘Where’s the toilet?’ said Vicki.
‘Right down in the corner of the yard,’ said Dexter.
Vicki lit the candle. The door would not stay shut.
‘How do you bear it?’ she said.
‘Bear it?’ Was this one of Elizabeth’s dramatic exclamations, or did she really want to know? ‘I’ve abandoned him, in my heart,’ said Athena. ‘It’s work. I’m just hanging on till we can get rid of him.’
‘We’ll go together down. Who wrote that?’
‘Browning. “My Last Duchess.”’
They had cold, passionless faces. He knew the phrase for it: ‘l’ inébranlable résolution de ne pas être ému.’
‘I like him,’ said Philip. ‘He’s like a character out of a Russian novel, or a Wagner opera.’
‘Haydn. It’s in C major. Isn’t that supposed to be the optimistic key? I could never understand why I always felt so cheerful after I’d heard that concerto, till I thought what key it was in.’
Dexter stuck this picture up on the kitchen wall, between the stove and the bathroom door. It is torn and stained, and coated with a sheen of splattered cooking grease. It has been there a long time. It is always peeling off, swinging sideways, dangling by one corner. But always, before it quite falls off the wall, someone saves it, someone sticks it back.
There is a TV, a phone on the floor, a bed like a big pink cloud. Where does she cook? Where does she wash herself? Where will I sleep? Everybody needs a bed. There are no walls or rooms.