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The steel-gray sky seems oppressively low this morning, and the streets are slick from a recent rain. Veronica stands on the steps to her flat, surrounded by luggage, as a cab pulls up that will take her to Heathrow airport. Her husband has left her, and now she will leave the UK. She flies to America this morning. An administrative job awaits her at the University of Wisconsin.

In the cab, Veronica is still brooding about her divorce. She wishes she could think about something else. Her husband was attractive and powerfully built, he was a former rugby player who, after marrying Veronica, was employed in the lower echelons of the British Foreign Office, where he met someone else. Veronica doesn’t know who it was, but she suspects it was a man. A man, which makes it seem somehow more insulting. Ruefully, she wishes that she had persuaded him to seek employment elsewhere, as if that would have made a difference.

It’s raining again, and a blustery wind spatters raindrops against Veronica as she disembarks from her cab at Heathrow.

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