Just like the night before, I found Willie already in the sitting room when I came downstairs. The rain, which had started after dinner, had weakened, but frog-song continued to bloat out into the cool, dripping night. Geoff’s book lay open on his lap, but the writer’s eyes were closed, his head tilted at a slight angle. He seemed to be listening intently to something in the air.
‘The songs of Anura,’ Willie said, opening his eyes when I joined him within the small circle of lamplight. ‘Even in London, it never fails to remind me of the … tropics whenever I … hear it.’
All day long I had been troubled by doubts. By telling my tale to Willie I was betraying not only Robert, but Ethel as well. And yet I must confess that it had felt liberating to tell my story to this man sitting in the half-shadows, this gentleman in my parlour.
Making myself comfortable in the armchair, I picked up my tale from where I had left off the previous night.