She laid her head on the back of the settee, and pushed her hair back over her ear, but said nothing; just smiled.
'Please. Tell me.'
'It's nothing. A little medicine to calm my nerves. It is strong, and I haven't used it for many, many years.'
'Perhaps you need a doctor for a different prescription? I could summon one very quickly if you wish.'
She smiled again and looked at me with what might have been affection, or indulgence, or even sympathy.
'It is not the sort of medicine which needs a doctor, Matthew.'
She pulled back the sleeve of her robe, and I could see a broad red mark around her upper arm; below it there was wound, with a trickle of dried blood coming from it. She laughed again at my incomprehension.
'Oh, my God, I have employed the most innocent man in London,' she said. 'You poor dear boy. You really know nothing at all.'
I must have been looking horrified by this stage, so she became more serious herself. 'Morphine, Matthew,' she said soberly. 'The great releaser, the comforter of tormented souls.'
I would have been shocked, had I had the time to arrange my thoughts, but in fact I wasn't thinking anything at all at that moment. I just sat there, closer to her than I had ever been, my heart pounding.
'Do I frighten you? Or do you frighten yourself?' she asked, but not in a way which suggested she wanted a reply. 'Shall I tell you what you are thinking?'
No reply from me. I was so far out of my depth I knew that the faintest wriggle might cause me to sink and drown.
'You have been thinking of me, night and day. You dream of me, of wanting to take me into your arms and kiss me. That is what you would say, were you able to say anything at all. You are silent now, but in your mind some part of you is trying to turn it to your advantage. Perhaps this is your opportunity, perhaps I would not resist if you leaned forward and took me now. But you don't want merely to kiss me, of course. You want to make love to me; you dream of me becoming your mistress. You long to see me naked in front of you, wanting only to be possessed by you. Is that not true, dearest Matthew?'
Her voice was entirely even; there was nothing in its tone or expression to suggest whether she was enticing or mocking, or both. Perhaps was so drugged – I could hardly imagine her talking like this had she not been – she didn't even know herself. Either way, her words and actions paralysed me. Of course, everything she said was entirely true. But there was cruelty in her saying it.
'Are you lost for words, Matthew? Do you think that if you say something, it might be the wrong thing, and ruin a moment full of such wonderful possibilities? Are you so very timid and naïve with women that you do not know what to do next?' Then she put her hand round the back of my neck and pulled my head towards her, and whispered words into my ear such as I had never heard from the mouth of a woman before, even the very lowest. Hissing, almost serpent-like, her voice became, making me feel even more like a prey being immobilised.
So I took hold of her, and began to kiss her, becoming ever more rough as she not only did not resist, but responded. Only when my hands moved down to touch her body did she stiffen, then push me away and stood up. She walked over to the fireplace and looked into the mirror a few moments.
'I must ask you to leave,' she said, without even turning round.
'What?'
She gave me no answer. What had gone wrong? What had I done? I was sure I had made no terrible error. If I had been unduly forward, it was only on her provocation, and she knew it. So what had happened?
'It is late and I am tired.'
'No, you're not.'
'Get out.'
'Elizabeth . . .'
'Get out,' she screamed and wheeled round at me, her face ablaze, picking up the blue bowl from the mantelpiece. That bowl, the one she had used to humiliate me, to put me in my place. It served its purpose again, as it crashed into the wall behind me and shattered into a hundred pieces. She was terrifying. I was terrified. Then the fury drained from her face and she became calm again. It was as though I wasn't there, as if she was talking to herself. Perhaps it was the drug that was causing this whole thing. Maybe I had come under the influence of it as well, and this was all some nightmare.
'I must try and sleep tonight. I hope I can.' Then she started talking in French, and I understood not one word of what she was saying. Eventually I realised she had completely forgotten about me; didn't even realise I was there. I slipped out of the room and out of the house. I was shaking.
By the morning I felt terrible, and had convinced myself I was completely to blame. She was a widow, still in shock. I had tried to take advantage of her. I had wanted to, in any case. The drugs repelled me; I knew they existed, of course; you couldn't be a crime reporter without coming across them, but to see a woman like her so reduced was a terrible thing. It made her all the more fascinating as well.
