The first twenty minutes of that drive were an island of happiness. Dick’s friend was singing too, and driving fast. Sleepy from gazing at the screen, relaxed from giggling, I watched the headlights eating up the road, the swing of the hedge and tree as they swept by, and thought, “This is being happy.” The night was a dark one and seemed particularly huge because I was unfamiliar with the road: what was stretching on invisible on either side I didn’t know and didn’t want to know. I wanted to rush on into unknown territory forever, safe in the warm intimacy of the car, the blanket rough against my chin, the men singing and joking, Roxane reaching into the back from time to time to feed me a chocolate, and neither of the two in front knowing that my hand was fast in Dick’s. I was eighteen and no one had ever held my hand before. Wilfred had always been too shy to attempt physical contact beyond bumping into me occasionally. The was a new move in the game, and a big one. When I spoke I was careful to keep my voice normal, and this made me feel both sly and reckless. I said things for no reason but to enjoy this feeling. To say nonchalantly, “Roxane, remember the bit where the centurion ground his teeth…” while at the same time I could feel my pulse – or was it Dick’s – beating between our hands gave me a jubilant sense of daring. “Little do they know!” I said to myself, and tightened my fingers.