Henry believes he knows exactly when the woman in the neighbouring apartment dies. He looks around his own sumptuous flat and still can't quite believe how he's come to live in this part of St John's Wood. A few months ago he received a letter telling him he had inherited the flat, but he's no idea who from. It must have belonged to his father's mistress, but he doesn't know. Or care.

He decides to go out to a cafe he's in the habit of frequenting. He orders a strudel and the smell reminds him of his father, Izzi, and his mother, Ekaterina. He remembers the shame of Izzi's affairs and his desire to protect his mother. For some reason, he also relives the sexual frisson he felt for his Aunt Marghanita. He shakes himself back to the present and leaves a £10 tip for the waitress. He wonders if she notices him.

"The name's Lachlan," said the man going in to the old woman's apartment. "I've waited 30 years to get my hands on this place."

Henry did not quite know what to say. Lachlan's bullying manner reminded him of "Hovis-head" Belkin, the boy who had called him a girl in his first week at school. Somehow he had remained a girl in spirit. Even at the University of the Pennine Way, where he had taught English until his retirement, he had been an honorary girl.

There were just the three of them at the funeral. Lachlan, Henry and the waitress. Henry felt a surge of jealousy. He remembered how Hovis-head always stole his girl friends. Not that he had many girl-friends; rather he tended to borrow other men's wives for a while until they got bored and moved on. Now Lachlan had stolen his girl.

"I'm Moira," she said, flashing her thighs and revealing she was wearing no underwear. She wasn't Lachlan's girl. Henry's heart soared for the first time in 60 years. Could he be falling in love?

"It's no good," he said sadly. "Every time I try to live in the present, my mind races back to the past."

Moira could sense him drifting away again. "Look," she cried. "There's an obituary of your old-friend Hovis-head."

Henry felt a flicker of a feeling. "Thank God, he's dead," he moaned.

"Come to Eastbourne with me," Moira pleaded.

"Oh look," muttered Henry. "There's a bench with my mother's name on it. I wonder how that got there."

Lachlan raced into the apartment. "I've found the old girl's diaries. There's a reference to your mother." Henry stared in disbelief. It had been his mother who had had the affair, and left him the apartment. What's more she - a Jew - had been seeing an Arab. Somehow he could feel himself coming back to life. But still something was missing.

"I've just run over Lachlan's dog," wept Moira.

"That's it," shouted Henry. "I'm ready to live."

The digested read ... digested

A la recherche d'Henri perdu