Betsey's bedroom was lined with fresh-smelling tatami mats and it was on the first floor of a dark wooden house, very Arts and Crafts, but run down and smelling of damp. Over the next few weeks we made plans for finding a new house and moving in together, even announcing it sometimes at the end of a meeting which you were not supposed to do. Betsey always spoke at meetings and she was always working on her fourth step. She had a map of the world on one wall of her room with a spotlight trained on it, and when we were on her mattress I watched the shadow of our heads bob up and down over the Bay of Biscay.
I thought, I'm making love to a prostitute.