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I could smell that sweet mustiness of sleep, mingled with her perfume. I could almost taste her hair, her wet mouth, the salt of her skin. Her breasts were a little smaller than I would have expected, and her belly was a little rounded; she had an old-fashioned body, like the figure of Eve in one of those medieval paintings that showed the Expulsion from Eden. I ran a fingertip along her arm. It was soft, warm, covered in fine down. Still she did not move. I reached out and stroked her softly, running my fingers lightly over her breasts, belly and hips. I was afraid she would wake at any moment; at the same time, I wanted her to know I was there, to respond, to pull me towards her, into the moist warmth of her flesh.
    Suddenly I was aware of something and turned. The boy, Jeremy, was standing in the kitchen doorway, watching me. I hadn’t heard him come in; he was quite still, quite silent, and I realised he’d been standing there for some time, literally holding his breath, curious to see what I would do. That was what I’d heard – that soft intake of breath – though something else was suggested, a slight turn of the head, as he scented the air, like an animal. Yes, that was it, he was scenting me, taking me in fully, perhaps for the first time. Now, seeing that I’d noticed he was there, he smiled, softly, conspiratorially. I pulled back the hem of the dressing gown and stood up. I thought he would run to his mother and wake her, but all he did was stand there, frowning slightly, disappointed, or puzzled by something, as if I had just given him some task to perform that he did not understand. Inoticed that his hair and clothes were wet, and his hands were dirty, crusted at the knuckles with scabs of loam, as if he had just been digging.
    â€˜It’s all right,’ I said. ‘She’s only sleeping.’
    I was aware of the defensiveness in my voice, the note of guilt, and it irritated me, that I had felt the need to explain myself to a child. Yet there was no sign that he understood, either what I had said, or what he had caught me doing. I backed away from the sofa, towards the door that led to the hallway.
    â€˜I’d better go,’ I said. ‘I’ll call back later. When she’s awake.’
    He shook his head fiercely, like a dog, scattering drops of water everywhere. Then he turned and ran out, leaving a trail of muddy footprints across the kitchen floor. Mrs Olerud stirred then, or perhaps she only moved in her sleep, and I left quickly, leaving the front door ajar, just as I’d found it. As I walked away, I had the idea that I knew her in a way she would understand the next time she saw me, like the idea that sometimes comes when you touch someone in a dream then see them the next day, on the street, or in a shop, and you’re sure they remember the same dream, the one they had the night before, where you touched them and they responded, surprised by their own complicity, amazed by a moment of unexpected surrender. At the same time, I felt Mrs Olerud had intended it that way, that she had somehow contrived the whole thing.
    I returned at precisely two o’clock on Saturday afternoon, as we had agreed. Once again, Mrs Olerud was dressed impeccably, and she was as remote and polite as she had been at our first meeting. Yet the thought remained that she half-remembered everything that had happened, that a secret complicity existed between us. Once again, I brought her flowers: before I arrivedI had half-expected her to refuse them, but she accepted the gift naturally, and carried the bouquet into the kitchen, to put it in water. I noticed, then, that the flowers I had brought on my previous visit were standing on a shelf to one side of the fireplace, carefully arranged in a bright-blue ceramic vase. At that moment, I knew Mrs Olerud had been aware of me the previous day. She had allowed me to touch her, to explore her skin, and there was no doubt in my mind