He had had a most disturbing morning and himself could hardly believe in it. The memory of Julia’s blouse creasing under the pressure of his fingers and of herself warm beneath it, her scent and the smooth resilience of her cheek were at once extraordinarily vivid yet scarcely to be believed. Much more credible was the ease with which she had dealt with him. ‘She stopped my nonsense,’ he thought, ‘with one arm tied behind her back. I suppose she’s a dab hand at disposing of excitable young males.’ For the first time he was acutely aware of the difference in their ages and began to wonder uncomfortably how old Julia, in fact, might be. Mixed up with all this and in a different though equally disturbing key was his father’s suggestion that he, Ricky, should take himself off. This he found completely unacceptable and wondered unhappily if they were about to have a family row about it. He was much attached to his father. And then there was the case itself, muddling to a degree, with its shifting focus, its inconsistencies and lack of perceptible design.
