IN private she was sulky and demanding, prone to pick a fight on the flimsiest ofpretexts. I learned when the affair was long over that she suffered from bulimia, whichmust have contributed to her violent mood swings. We began to row regularly.
In late May, after we had been seeing each other regularly for about a month, shecalled me from Onslow Gardens in high dudgeon on my mobile phone. She was almosthysterical about something I was supposed to have done, but I could not fathom what; so Iquit lunch early and rushed back home, where I had left her that morning. She rushed pastme out of the door just as I arrived, her face red with tears and anger. I had no ideawhat the trouble was but clearly something had upset her. She had scrawled obscenities onboth drawing-room mirrors and an empty whisky decanter lay in the sink.
My heart sank. What other damage had she done—and why? I was soon to find out whenI went to the bathroom: she had taken the scissors to half-a-dozen business suits and someshirts.
She had not, as Private Eye and everybody else was later to relate, cut out thecrotches of the trousers, though it made for a better story with more fitting symbolism tosay that she had. Her handiwork was more mundane: she had slashed the sleeves of thejackets and some shirts.
