Last night, when she had gone to get her clothes from her flat, she had forgotten to pick up a letter which she needed in the office. So she breakfasted early and telephoned the Quai Saint-Michel. There was no answer. She decided Sheila wasn’t answering the phone because of the husband and so, on her way to work, she made a detour to collect the letter. When she arrived at the flat, it was about eight-fifteen. She rang, but there was no answer. She rang again, heard a noise inside, and the door opened to reveal Tom Lowry, his hair and shoulders wet, an inadequate hand towel draped around his middle. It was a sight which at once aroused her. “Sorry to disturb you. I phoned earlier, but there was no answer.” “Right,” he said. “We haven’t been answering the phone.” “I came to pick up something.” “Sure. Go ahead.” She went into the bedroom, noticing the rumpled bed, and thought of him making love in it. She stood on a chair and, from the top of the wardrobe, took down the large cardboard box in which she kept her private correspondence.
