‘No.’ (Oh dear, she has managed to get him irritated already! Yet how can he reasonably blame her for the discomfort of standing nastily unwiped, with his pants around his ankles? One must admit, though, that Charlotte has a positively clairvoyant knack of picking the wrong moment to call.)

‘You’re sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure. I’ve already had breakfast.’

‘I was afraid, if I waited any longer, you’d have gone off to the college. . . . My goodness, I hadn’t noticed it was so late! Oughtn’t you to have started already?’

‘This is the day I have only one class. It doesn’t begin until eleven-thirty. My early days are Mondays and Wednesdays.’ (All this explained in a tone of slightly emphasised patience.)

‘Oh yes – yes, of course! How stupid of me! I always forget.’

(A silence. George knows she wants to ask him something. But he won’t help her. He is rubbed up the wrong way by her blunderings. Why does she imply that she ought to know his college schedule? Just more of her possessiveness. And why, if she really thinks she ought to know it, does she get it all mixed up?)

‘Geo —’ (very humbly) ‘would you possibly be free tonight?’

‘Afraid not. No.’ (One second before speaking, he couldn’t have told you what he was going to answer. It’s the desperation in Charlotte’s voice that decides him. He isn’t in the mood for one of her crises.)

‘Oh – I see. . . . I was afraid you wouldn’t be. It is short notice, I know.’ (She sounds half stunned, very quiet, hopeless. He stands there listening for a sob. None can be heard. His face is puckered into a grimace of guilt and discomfort – the latter caused by his increasing awareness of stickiness and trussed ankles.)

‘I suppose you couldn’t – I mean – I suppose it’s something important?’

‘I’m afraid it is.’ (The grimace of guilt relaxes. He is mad at her now. He won’t be nagged at.)