Last night, V sat beside me on the kitchen couch and took my bare feet on his lap and told me what he really thought about ‘Recording Angel’—that it was ‘a very strong story’, but that O would have been shocked to read a description of himself at his lowest, in hospital after that dreadful operation: to be revealed and scrutinised while in that state. I began to feel the horror of what I’ve done. I heard myself jabbering the same old justifications, how I thought I’d done this and what I’d meant was that, and it made me sick. I broke off mid-sentence and got up and walked over to the sink. He said, ‘What’s up, sweetheart?’ I said, ‘I’m sick and tired of myself, that’s all.’ He came and put his arms round me and gently kissed me. The awful truth is that no one can help you carry the consequences of your behaviour. You are required to carry them on your own.