He woke slowly, and from a long way off. His head was heavy. His sleep had been deep but troubled. He turned to face Deborah, reached out with his right hand to stroke the ample curve of her admired and envied buttocks, very very gently, so gently that he wouldn’t wake her if she was fast asleep, but would stimulate her to a faint moan of yawned pleasure if she was sleeping lightly, and, if she was already awake, would reassure her that he was still fond of her, even though he was no longer interested in the glories that had once banished all thoughts of early-morning tea from the first minutes of the day. There were no curves. There were no buttocks. His arm felt only space, and suddenly all the events of the day before came flooding back. His head was heavy because he had drunk too much, and because he had taken a temazepam tablet when sleep wouldn’t come, when the empty bed that he had dreamt about had been more than he could bear. Philip had said that he would ring at eight. He hoped he would.
