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productive of self-satisfaction than of fruit or veg. ‘From our own garden’, he would say, as he served his guests horrid little bowls of red currants.
    Already on the window-ledge in the kitchen there was a little bottle of paraquat.
    That afternoon he pottered around in his mouldy little patch. By the time he had finished and washed his hands under the kitchen tap the paraquat had found its way next to the box of tea-bags standing by the kettle. The top of the paraquat was loose, having been screwed only about half way round.
    â€˜Does you good to get out on your own patch of earth,’ Ben observed to Caroline, as he went through to his study.
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    The next question that presented itself was: when? There were all sorts of possibilities—including that the police would immediately arrest him for murder, he was reconciled to that—but he thought that on the whole it would be best to do it on the morning when he was latest home. Paraquat could be a long time in taking effect, he knew, but there was always a chance that they would not decide to call medical help until it was too late. If he was to come home to a poisoned wife and lover in the flat, he wanted them to be well and truly dead. Wednesday was the day when all the breakfast TV team met in committee to hear what was planned for the next week: which ageing star would be plugging her memoirs, which singer plugging his forthcomingBritish tour. Wednesdays Ben often didn’t get home till early afternoon. Wednesday it was.
    Tentatively in his mental engagements book he pencilled in Wednesday, May 15.
    Whether the paraquat would be in the teapot of the Teasmade, or in the tea-bag, or how it would be administered, was a minor matter that he could settle long before the crucial Tuesday night when the tea-things for the morning had to be got ready. The main thing was that everything was decided.
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    May 15—undoubtedly a turning-point in her life—began badly for Caroline. First of all Ben kissed her goodbye before he set off for the studio, something he had not done since the early days of his engagement on breakfast television. Michael had come in at five o’clock as usual, but his love-making was forced, lacking in tenderness. Caroline lay there for an hour in his arms afterwards, wondering if anything was worrying him. He didn’t say anything for some time—not till the television was switched on. Probably he relied on the bromides and the plugs to distract Caroline’s attention from what he was going to say.
    He had taken up his textbook, and the kettle of the Teasmade was beginning to hum, when he said, in his gruff, teenage way:
    â€˜Won’t be much more of this.’
    Caroline was watching clips from a Frank Bruno fight, and not giving him her full attention. When it was over, she turned to him:
    â€˜Sorry—what did you say?’
    â€˜I said there won’t be much more of this.’
    A dagger went to her heart, which seemed to stop beating for minutes. When she could speak, the words came out terribly middle-class-matron.
    â€˜I don’t quite understand. Much more of what?’
    â€˜This. You and me together in the mornings.’
    â€˜You don’t mean your parents are coming home early?’
    â€˜No. I’ve . . . got a flat. Nearer college. So there’s not so much travelling in the mornings and evenings.’
    â€˜You’re just moving out ?’
    â€˜Pretty much so. Can’t live with my parents for ever.’
    Caroline’s voice grew louder and higher.
    â€˜You’re not living with your parents. It’s six months before they come home. You’re moving out on me. Do you have the impression that I’m the sort of person you can just move in with when it suits you, and then flit away from when it doesn’t suit you any longer?’
    â€˜Well . . . yes, actually. I’m a free