The Collector

 There was a silence. He turned to look at me across the studio. I said, I'm very sorry.

 He said, go home. We can't go to bed together. When I stood up, he said, I'm glad you came back. It was decent of you. Then he said, you would.

 I went down the stairs and he came out behind me. I don't want to go to bed with you, I'm speaking about the situation. Not us. Understand?

 I said, of course I understand.

 And I went on down. Being female. Wanting to make him feel I was hurt.

 As I opened the bottom door he said, I've been hitting it. He must have seen I didn't understand, because he added, drinking.

 He said, I'll telephone you.

 He did, he took me to a concert, to hear the Russians play Shostakovich. And he was _sweet_. That's just what he was. Even though he never apologized.

    _October 26th_

 I don't trust him. He's bought this house. If he lets me go he'll have to trust me. Or he'll have to sell it and disappear before I can (could) get to the police. Either way it would be unlike him.

 It's too depressing, I _have_ to believe he'll keep his word.

 He spends pounds and pounds on me. It must be nearly two hundred already. Any book, any record, any clothes. He has all my sizes. I sketch what I want, I mix up the colours as a guide. He even buys all my underwear. I can't put on the black and peach creations he bought before, so I told him to go and get something sensible at Marks and Spencer. He said, can I buy a lot together? Of course it must be agony for him to go shopping for me (what does he do at the chemist's?), so I suppose he prefers to get it all over in one go. But what can they think of him? One dozen pants and three slips and vests and bras. I asked him what they said when he gave the order and he went red. I think they think I'm a bit peculiar, he said. It was the first time I've really laughed since I came here.

 Every time he buys me something I think it is proof that he's not going to kill me or do anything else unpleasant.

 I shouldn't, but I like it when he comes in at lunch-time from wherever he goes. There are always parcels. It's like having a perpetual Christmas Day and not even having to thank Santa Glaus. Sometimes he brings things I haven't asked for. He always brings flowers, and that is nice. Chocolates, but he eats more of them than I do. And he keeps on asking me what I'd like him to buy.

 I know he's the Devil showing me the world that can be mine. So I don't sell myself to him. I cost him a lot in little things, but I know he wants me to ask for something big. He's dying to make me grateful. But he shan't.

 An awful thought that came to me today: they will have suspected G.P. Caroline is bound to give the police his name. Poor man. He will be sarcastic and they won't like it.

 I've been trying to draw him today. Strange. It is hopeless. Nothing like him.

 I know he is short, only an inch or two more than me. (I've always dreamed tall men. Silly.)

 He is going bald and he has a nose like a Jew's, though he isn't (not that I'd mind if he was). And the face is too broad. Battered, worn; battered and worn and pitted into a bit of a mask, so that I never quite believe whatever expression it's got on. I glimpse things I think must come from behind; but I'm never very sure. He puts on a special dry face for me sometimes. I see it go on. It doesn't seem dishonest, though, it seems just G.P. Life is a bit of a joke, it's silly to take it seriously. Be serious about art, but joke a little about everything else. Not the day when the H-bombs drop, but the "day of the great fry-up." "When the great fry-up takes place." Sick, sick. It's his way of being healthy.

 Short and broad and broad-faced with a hook-nose; even a bit Turkish. Not really English-looking at all.

 I have this silly notion about English good looks. Advertisement men.

 Ladymont men.

    _October 27th_

 The tunnel round the door is my best bet. I feel I _must_ try it soon. I think I've worked out a way of getting him away. I've been looking very carefully at the door this afternoon. It's wood faced with iron on this side. Terribly solid. I could never break it down or lever it open. He's made sure there's nothing to break and lever with, in any case.

 I've begun to collect some "tools." A tumbler I can break. That will be something sharp. A fork and two teaspoons. They're aluminium, but they might be useful. What I need most is something strong and sharp to pick out the cement between the stones with. Once I can make a hole through them it shouldn't be too difficult to get round into the outer cellar.

 This makes me feel practical. Businesslike. But I haven't done anything.

 I feel more hopeful. I don't know why. But I do.

    _October 28th_