, Mr Leonard''-sounding ridiculous to herself, her voice thick, uncertain, not at all like her own. She moved from him: went gracelessly up the staircase to her room; fumbled with the lock of it before she got the door open and went inside.
She waited for the click of Mr Leonard''s door downstairs and then, without putting on the light, crossed to her armchair and sat down. Her foot struck something as she went, and sent it rustling over the rucked-up rug: she''d left a newspaper, open, on the floor. On the arm of her chair was a dirty plate and an old tin pie-dish, overflowing with ash and cigarette stubs. A shirt and some collars that she had recently washed were hanging from a string in the fireplace, pale and flimsy-looking in the gloom.
She kept still for a moment, then put her hand to her pocket and brought out that ring. It felt bulky to her touch, and the finger on which she''d used to wear it was too slim, now, to keep it in place. When she had taken it, in the street, it had still been warm from Viv''s hand. She had sat in the cinema, staring unseeingly at the roaring, twitching pantomime being played out on the screen, turning the gold band over and over, running her fingertips across all its little scratches and dents... At last, unable to bear it, she''d clumsily put the ring away and got to her feet; had stumbled along the cinema row, gone quickly through the foyer, and out into the street.
Since then she had been walking. She''d walked to Oxford Street, to Rathbone Place, to Bloomsbury-restless and searching, just as Mr Leonard had guessed. She''d thought of going back to Mickey''s boat-had got as far as Paddington, even, before she''d given the idea up. For, what was the point? She''d gone into a pub instead, and had a couple of whiskeys. She''d bought a drink for a blonde-haired girl; that had made her feel better.