the mistake i made1.droppdf.com/files/k9mf5/the-mistake-i-made-paula-daly.pdfthe mistake i made...

Contents

CoverTitlePageDedication

JulyChapter1Chapter2Chapter3Chapter4Chapter5Chapter6Chapter7

Chapter8Chapter9Chapter10Chapter11Chapter12Chapter13Chapter14Chapter15Chapter16Chapter17Chapter18Chapter19Chapter20Chapter21

Chapter22Chapter23Chapter24Chapter25Chapter26Chapter27Chapter28Chapter29Chapter30Chapter31Chapter32Chapter33Chapter34Chapter35

Chapter36Chapter37Chapter38Chapter39Chapter40Chapter41Chapter42

TwoMonthsLaterChapter43Chapter44Chapter45Chapter46

AcknowledgementsAbouttheAuthorAlsobyPaulaDalyCopyright

TheMistakeIMade

PaulaDaly

ForGrace

July

1

BODIES WERE MY business.Living, not dead. And on asweltering afternoon in earlyJulythebodylyingfacedownin front of me was anordinary specimen. He wasmytwelfthpatientoftheday,

andmybackwasaching,mysunny disposition just aboutbeginningtofalter.‘Howisitfeeling?’ he asked as I sankmy thumbs into tough fasciarunningalongsidehisspine.‘Pretty good,’ I replied.

‘I’vegotridofthescartissuearoundL4 – the troublesomejoint. You should notice adifference as soon as youstandup.’He was a quarry worker.

Oftenmytoughestcustomers.

They spoke very little, so Ienjoyedthebriefrespitefromthe interaction that mostdemanded, but physically,quarryworkerswere hard onmyhands.Theyhaveadensebulk to their musculature, aresistance to the tissues,whichrequiresthefullweightof my upper body, directeddown through my overusedthumbs.My thumbs were my

instruments. Essential for

everyfacetofmywork.Theywere my diagnostic tools,used to detect and assess thenuances in tissue structure;mymeansofofferingrelieftoapersoninpain.I had contemplated having

them insured. Like BettyGrable’s legs. But I neverquitedidgetaroundtoit.‘When you’ve finished

with my back,’ he said, ‘ifyou’ve got time, would youmind having a quick look at

myshoulder?’He liftedhis head, smiling

regretfully, as though hereally did hate to be anuisance.‘Notatall,’Isaidbrightly,

maskingasigh.I used to be a self-

employed physiotherapist,and I did my utmost to takecare of the needs of everysingle patient. If I didn’t getresults,Ididn’tgetpaid.SoIworked hard to build up a

busypractice.That thing we strive for?

Thework–lifebalance?ForawhileIhadit.Notanymore.When therewasnomoney

left, I found myself here.Working fifty hours a weekforachainofclinics,coopedupinanairlesscubiclewithaproduction line of patients.The fruits of my labours gostraight into someone else’spocket.

I also found myself at themercy of a practice managernamedWayne.Waynemeantwell,buthis

desire to get the job donecorrectly sometimes madehim overbearing. And everysooftenhecouldalsobecomeflirtatious – though I shouldsay that it was never to thepoint of harassment.But youhad to be firm with him, orelse his behaviour wouldescalate and he would begin

suggesting dates. I think hewaspossiblyalittlelonely.With the quarry worker

now perched on the edge oftheplinth,Ikneltbehindhimand asked him to raise theaffected arm out to his side.When he reached ninetydegrees he sucked in hisbreath with the pain andjerked the shoulderinvoluntarily.‘Supraspinatus,’Itoldhim.‘Isthatbad?’

‘Canbetricky.Ican’ttreatit properly today, though,there’s not enough time. ButI’ll pop in an acupunctureneedle and see if I can giveyouatleastsomerelief.’I’d studied acupuncture as

a postgraduate course andwhile I twisted the needleback and forth, back andforth, I could hear Wayneoutside in the reception area,cajoling a patient, trying topersuade her to make an

appointment with one of theotherclinicians.‘I want Roz Toovey,’ she

wassayingtohim.‘Roz is fully booked until

the middle of next week.How about Gary Muir?’ hepressed. ‘Gary has oneavailable slot left today. Hecouldseeyouintenminutes.’Noanswer.‘Okay, what about

Magdalena?’ Waynesuggested.

Thiswas thegeneralorderof things. First, Wayne triedtopalmpeopleoffwithGary,who I was pretty sure didn’tknowhisarsefromhiselbow,and,asfarasIcouldtell,wasaccepted on to the degreecourse simply because therewasanationwideshortageofmale physiotherapists at thetime. Before his training,Gary had been a second-divisionfootballer.‘Magdalena?’ the woman

asked. ‘That the Germanwoman?’‘Austrian,’saidWayne.‘She hurt me last time. I

feltlikeI’dbeenhitbyabus.No,IwantRoz.’‘But,’ Wayne replied,

losingpatience, ‘as I alreadysaid,Rozisfullybooked.’I am Roz Toovey, by the

way.‘Can’t you just have a

word with her?’ she said.‘Tell her it’s SueMitchinson

and my back’s out again? Iusedtobeoneofherregulars.I’m sure she’d fit me in, ifshe knew it was me. And Iaminincrediblepain.Roz istheonlyonewhocan—’‘Hang on,’ Wayne said,

irritated,andIheardfootstepsheadingmyway.Three sharp raps on the

wood.‘Roz, there’s a Sue

Mitchinson here, wonderingifyoucanseeher.’

‘Excuse me a moment,’ Isaidtothepatient.Iopenedthedoorandstuck

myheadout.LookingpastWayne,Icast

myeyesdirectlyovertowardsSue, who upon seeing memarched across the receptionarea.Before Ihad thechance to

speak,shebegantopleadhercase.‘Roz,Iwouldn’taskifIwasn’tdesperate.YouknowIwouldn’t. If you could just

see me for five minutes, I’dbeeversograteful.’Not only was I the only

physiotherapist in SouthLakeland apparently capableof fixing Sue, the two of ushadahistory.Ihadahistorywithalotof

patients who frequented thispractice, in that they allfollowed me from my ownclinicwhenitfolded.Mostofthem had been intrinsic inbuilding up my clientele, so

therealitywas,Iowedthem.In the beginning, I placed

one small advertisement inthe local press, and thesecondIofferedpeoplerelieffromtheirsometimeschronicpain (something otherpractitioners in the areaweren’t always able to do),word spread. I became fullybooked within a month. Ofcourse, the trouble now wasthat those early patients, theoneswhohadbeensokindin

recommending me, suddenlycouldn’t get appointments.And so they would resort tothe You-know-I-wouldn’t-ask-unless-I-was-desperateplea.‘Sue,Ican’t,’Isaidfirmly.

‘I have to collect Georgefrom after-school club, andI’ve been late twice alreadythisweek.’Without pausing to think,

sheshotback,‘WhatifIwastoringmymotherandgether

topickupGeorge?’I didn’t know Sue’s

mother. Never met thewoman.NeitherhadGeorge.‘We’reover inHawkshead

now,’ I said, as tactfully as Icould. ‘So that’s not reallydoable.’Suescrewedupherfaceas

she tried frantically to comeupwitha solution thatmightwork, just as Wayne lookedon with the beginnings ofagitation. It could irk him

something terrible thatpatients insisted upon seeingme and wouldn’t be palmedoffwith the likes ofGary. ItmadeitimpossibleforWayneto balance the appointmentschedule.Andwhatweendedup with was me workingmyself into a stupor, whilstGary twiddled his thumbs inreception.Generally, Gary spent this

free time chatting toWayne,discussing the Premier

League and the merits ofPuma King football boots.Both of them saying‘absolutely’alot.‘How about you give me

fiveminutes?Fiveminutesorless,’ said Sue, in one last-ditchattempt.‘Okay, five minutes,’ I

said,beaten.‘Butyou’llhavetowait.Ihaveanotherpatientin straight after this one andI’mrunninglate.’Sue wasn’t listening. She

wasalreadyhurryingawaytotake her seat in the waitingarea before anyone had thechancetochangetheirminds.‘Did you call that

insurance guy?’ Wayneasked.‘What? No, sorry. Slipped

mymindagain.’Wayne sighed

dramatically, rolled his eyesand spoke in the way onewould when reprimanding asmall child. ‘Get it sorted,

Roz. Everyone else has hadtheir assessments.’ Helowered his voice. ‘Withoutthat assessment, you’re notfully protected. The clinic isnotfullyprotected,unless—’‘I’ll do it. Promise. As

soon as I’ve got a freeminute. Listen, Wayne,’ Isaid, stepping out of thetreatment room and closingthe door behind me so thepatient couldn’t hear what Iwas about to ask, ‘I don’t

supposethere’sanychanceofasmalladvanceonmywage,is there? It’s just things arereally tight right at theminute,andI’mnotsureIcanmakeittillnextFriday.’He tilted his head to one

side and looked at me withmildreproach.‘Itoldyouthisbefore, Roz,’ he said gently.‘The company cannot makeexceptions.Notevenforyou.Iwish therewas something Icould do but, honestly, my

handsaretied.’Andwiththathewalkedaway.As I finished off with the

quarry worker I could hearWayne informing Sue inreception,hisvoicenowloudand dictatorial, that shemustpay for the treatment sessionup front, and in full,regardlessoftheduration.He was in the habit of

doing this when he’d foundhimselfoverruledonamatterof limited importance, and

todaywasnodifferent.

When I started out on myown, years ago, I rememberbeing terribly worried aboutwhether I could make thebusiness work or not. At thetime, Ivoiced theseconcernsto one of my first patients,Keith Hollinghurst, and hehad this to say: ‘Those thathave to make it work, do.Thosethatdon’t,don’t.’To thisday,hehasalways

remained scornful of peoplewho play at running abusiness;notgraspingwhatitactually takes to turnaprofityearin,yearout.‘Nineoutoftencompaniesfail,’hewouldtell me. ‘Make sure yours istheonethatdoesn’t.’KeithHollinghurstwasold

school. He ran a scrap-metalfirm.Hewasneverwithoutawad of rolled-up twenties inhis pocket, and was notbackwardatcomingforward.

Keith continued on as mypatientand,whilehelayfacedown now, his hairy backpeppered with acupunctureneedles,Ilistenedtohimrantabout the generalincompetence of SouthLakelanddistrictcouncil,andas he relayed conversationshe’d had with variousjobsworths – who, naturally,he’d put in their rightfulplaces. I would chip in,oohingandahhing,askingthe

odd question to give theimpressionofbeingattentive.ThenIpulledtheneedlesoutofKeith’sskinandaskedhimto turn over, face up, so Icould manipulate his lowerback – by levering his legacross the front of his body.Heobliged,andas Iproppeda pillow beneath his head, Icaught sight of the large,dried urine stain on his Y-fronts.‘I’ve got a proposition for

you when you’ve done withmy back,’ he said, blinkingrapidly.‘I’m not watching you

masturbate,Keith.’He’d suggested this more

thanonce.Hekept silent as I levered

his leg over, asking him totakeabreathin,thenabreathout, as I pushed down hardand listened for the tell-taleclick.Patients think this is the

sound of an intervertebraldisc being pushed back intoplace. It’s not. It’s either thesound of two joint surfacesdistracting, coming apart –the gas coming out of itssolution to give rise to apopping noise – or, morecommonly, and in thisinstance, it’s the sound ofadhesions tearing around thejoint.But I go along with the

discideabecauseit’seasier.

Other things I go alongwith are 1. the fact thatanyone who has visited anosteopath will claim to haveoneleglongerthantheother,2. the irritating assumptionthat blind physiotherapistshavehealingpowersonaparwithJesusChristhimselfand3.thefalseclaimmadebyallmiddle-agedwomentohaveaveryhighpainthreshold.‘Look,’saidKeith,‘Iknow

you’re short of cash. I know

you’reonyourownwiththatkiddie. I’ll give you an extrasixtyquid inyourhand rightnow if you do it. You don’tevenhave tocomeanywherenearme.AndI’llbefast.’‘Absolutelynot.’‘Remember what I said to

you when you first startedout?’‘Remindme,’Isaid.‘That you have to go the

extra mile if you’re tosurvive.Theoneswhojustdo

thenecessary inbusiness fail… the ones who don’t givethe extra customersatisfaction—’‘My business has already

failed.It’stoolateforthat.’‘Yes,butifyou’regoingto

get back on your feet, Roz,you can’t just do the bareminimum. People expectmore,theyexpectmoretodaythan ever before. What withthe economy the way it is.Everyoneischasingthesame

money.Jobsaredisappearingand—’Ilookedathim.‘You’re not seriously

justifyingwhatyou’re askingme to do by debatingunemployment levels, areyou,Keith?’Shiftily, he looked

sideways,beforebitingdownonhislowerlip.‘Eighty quid,’ he said.

‘Eighty quid, cash. Rightnow.Youdon’tevenhaveto

pretendtolikewhatyousee.’‘Idon’tlikewhatIsee.’‘Ahundredquid.’‘No, Keith,’ I said firmly.

‘Nowgetyourtrouserson.’

2

AS THE FERRY groaned awayfrom the shore, I got out ofthecar.For tourists, it’s a given

they exit their vehicles themoment the ferry gates close– takingphotographsofeach

other smiling, the lake astheir backdrop, pointing tothe pretty mansions dottedalong the shoreline. But likemost locals I took thebeautyforgranted.Iforgottolookatthe slate-topped fells, theancient forests, theglisteningwater.The sheer majesty of the

place can become invisiblewhenyou’refacedwithdailyworries,dailyconcerns.The villages of Bowness

andHawksheadareseparatedby the largest natural lake inthe country: Windermere.The ferry crosses it at itsmidpoint, the lake’s widestpoint in fact, and there hasbeen a service here at itscurrentsiteformorethanfivehundred years. It’s a fifteen-mile trip to go around thelakeineitherdirection,andintheheavysummertrafficthatjourney can easily takemorethan an hour, so the ferry is

essential. Early craft wererowedover,thenlaterasteamboat ran. The current ferry,which carries eighteen carsand runs on cables, ispoweredbydiesel.OngooddaysIwouldfeel

so fortunate.Myheartwouldswell at the splendour of thecommute home toHawkshead,andIwouldfeelglad to be alive. Blessed tolive in one of the prettiestplaces on earth. The kind of

placepeopledreamofretiringtoafterworkinghardalltheirlives.Today,Iwaslate.The no excuses kind of

late.Tall tales of temporary

traffic lights, tractors withtrailers loading sheep, or flattyreswouldnotwash.Andnomatter how late I was, theferrycouldn’tgoanyfaster.Twoweeksago,mycarsat

alongside an ambulance

carrying a casualty, and theferrycouldn’tgoanyfasterinthatinstanceeither.Itwasanarrestingsight,theambulancestationary, its blue lights on,aswecrawledacrossthelake.The passengers were castingnervous glances at oneanother, wondering who wasinside, who it was thatrequired urgent medicalattention. We never did findout.Iwasn’tgoingtomakeitto

after-school club until wellpast thedeadlineandbythenGeorge would be anxious,probably a little tearful. Hewas nine, and thoughgenerallyatoughkidwhenheneededtobe,sincehisfatherandIsplit, thepastcoupleofyearshadbeenhardonhim.Icould see his easy-goingnature gradually seepingawayandbeingreplacedbyasort of moody apprehension,astatemoreakin to thatofa

displaced teenager.Moreandmore, he wore a guardedexpression, as though heneeded to be properlyprepared for the obstaclesthrown our way by theconstantstateoffluxinwhichwefoundourselves.I took out my mobile and

pressedredial.The sun was still high in

the sky and the heat beatdownhard.Thedieselfumesfromboth

theferryandthecoupleofcarenginesstillrunninggavetheair a heavy, polluted feel, acontamination that wasincongruous to the clean,clear lake water throughwhichwecut.Istoodagainsttherail,cradlingthephoneinmy hand as I listened, oncemore, to the recordedmessagefromtheafter-schoolclub.Then I dialled Dylis again

inanattempttolocatemyex-

husband. This time, shepickedup.‘Dylis?It’sRoz.’‘Who?’‘Roz,’Irepeated.‘Where’s

Winston?’‘Oh, I don’t know, dear,’

she said vaguely, as if she’djustwokenup.Shewasoftenlikethis,actingasifsheweremildly drugged, not quitewith it. ‘He’s at work, Ithink,’shesaid. ‘LetmefindapenandpaperandI’llwrite

the message down, becauseI’mterribleat—’‘Dylis,’ I interrupted,

‘Winston doesn’t have a job.He’soutofwork,remember?That’s why I don’t get anychild-support payments. Areyousaying thathe’sworkingatajobrightnow?’‘Oh–no,’ she stammered,

‘I’m not saying that. No,that’s not it. I’m not exactlysurewhereheis.Perhapshe’sout helping someone, you

know,forfree?’‘Forfree,’Imirroredflatly.

‘That sounds just likeWinston. Look, Dylis, if hegets back in the next fiveminutes, can you get him torun and pick up George forme?I’mlate.’‘But it’s not our turn to

havehim,’shesaid,confused,and I could hear her flickingthrough pages; must havebeenthepagesofherdiary.‘It’s not your weekend to

have him,’ I explained, ‘butI’m very late. And it wouldreallyhelpifyoucouldlocateWinstonand—’‘Ticket,Roz,’cameavoice

frombehind.With the phone lodged

against my ear, I turned,withdrawing a note frommywalletandhandingitover.‘Ineed a new book, Terry,’ Iwhispered to the agedattendant. ‘I used my lastticketthismorning.’

We made the exchange,Terry being a man of fewwords, and I went back toexplaining the situation toDylis.Shecouldn’tdrive,soIdidn’t suggest she shouldgetGeorge herself. She lived inOutgate, ahamlet amile andhalf or so from Hawkshead.ButWinstonToovey,myex,who was obviously doingworkcash-in-hand–hadbeensince Christmas, if mysuspicionswerecorrect–was

probably breezing aboutnearby, passing the time ofdaywithfolk,norealhurrytobeanywherewhatsoevernowthat he was living with hismother and had absolvedhimself nicely of all majorresponsibilities.Andsincehedidn’t always carry amobilephone, we couldn’t locatehim.IendedthecallwithDylis,

not for the first time filledwith the urge to slam my

phone against somethingsolid.Shegotmelikethat. Itwas like trying to getinformation out of a child.Often, she’d slip up, makesome comment aboutWinstonshewasn’tsupposedto–tome,inparticular–andwhen I pressed her about it,she’dgomuteandstareatherfeet.Pressed really hard, Dylis

would lift her head and lookat me, woefully, as though

she knew she was in deep,deeptrouble.Shewouldlookat me as if to say, Pleasedon’ttellWinston.I wanted to shake the

woman. I wanted to scream:How can you let your sonwalk out and leave me withthis mountain of debt? But Ididn’t, because I was awareon some deeper level thatDylis’s dreamy,scatterbrained manner wasthebestshecoulddo.

By the time I reached theschoolitwas6.28.Twenty-eightminuteslate.I pushed open the front

door and was greeted by asilent corridor, naked coathooks, the odd PE bagdangling.I took a breath and went

intotheclassroom.Theafter-school club used the Year 1classroomand,whilstwaitingas George gathered up hisbelongings, I liked to look

around at their first attemptsat writing, at portraits ofparents – which were oftensurprisingly true in theirlikeness, highlightingqualities perhaps parentswished they’d not (jug ears,shuffledteeth).NowGeorgewasseatedon

the floor, his legs stretchedout in front of him, his eyescastdownwardsasheplayedonaNintendoDS.Hedidn’traisehisheadwhenIentered,

eventhoughhewasawareofmypresence.Insteadhegaveonequickflickofhisheadtoshifthishairoutofhiseyes.Iona, the youngwoman in

command of after-schoolclub, glanced up from herdeskandofferedawansmile.Onetosuggestthatthisreallywasgoingtobethelasttime.ItwasFriday.Thesunwas

out. She was ready for abikini top, shorts, flip-flopsandacold,drippingbottleof

Peroniinthevillagesquare.‘So sorry,’ I said

emphatically. ‘I’m so, sosorry. George, quickly, getyourthings.’‘Roz?’saidIona.‘I know. This is

unacceptable. How muchextradoIoweyou?’‘Ten pounds,’ she said.

‘We’ve had to start chargingfive pounds for every extraquarterofanhour,orparentsdon’t seem to see the

urgency.’‘Here,’Isaid,pullingouta

note, ‘take twenty. I knowyoucan’tkeepon—’‘Roz,’ she said sadly, ‘it’s

not themoney. It’smy time.I’ve been here since seven-thirty this morning, and Ihave a life, you know?’ Ionadidn’t raise her voice as shespoke. She was tooprofessional to get angry infrontofGeorge.Itwasalmostworseinaway.Shespokeas

ifIwerelettingmyselfdown.Lettingmysondown.‘I’m sorry,’ I repeated. ‘It

won’t happen again, I assureyou.’‘We’re going to have to

call an end to thisarrangement.It’sjustnot—’‘Don’t,’ I said quickly.

‘Please don’t do that. I can’tmanagewithoutit.’‘It’s not that I don’t

understand,Roz,’shesaid. ‘Icanseethatyou’restruggling.

But you’re late practicallyevery day, and it’s not fair.It’snotfaironusandit’snotfair on…’ She didn’t finishhersentence,simplygesturedtowards George, who waspretendingnot to listenashecollected his lunchbox fromthe windowsill. Having runout of biscuits, I’d stuck apeach yoghurt in there thismorning and was nowregrettingit.Theschoolhadapolicy of sending the kids’

rubbish home with them soyou’dknowifthey’deatenallof their lunch. That emptyyoghurt pot would besupporting its ownecosystem.TurningbacktoIona,Isaw

she was waiting for me tospeak.‘Idon’tknowwhat todo,’

I said honestly, as I thoughtthrough the logistics of thefollowingweek.Ionadidn’tofferasolution.

Unsurprising,really,sinceherpatience had run out over amonth ago. I’d had secondchanceaftersecondchance.Icouldaskmysister.No.Todaywasherfortieth

birthday. We were attendingherpartythiseveningandshewas off to New York nextweek. My parents were toofar away and I’d made apromise to my sister that Iabsolutely would not put onthemagain.I’dletthemdown

in the past, and I couldn’tbear to ask for their help.Atleast not for a good whileanyway.Winston was unreliable.

HehadleftGeorgewaitingatthe school gates more thanonce when he’d becomefascinated by extremeweather and had gone offstormchasingatthecoast.Ionaclearedherthroat.She

was still waiting for me tospeak.

But then, oddly, as sheattempted to stand, shewinced.‘Areyouokay?’Iaskedas

I watched her adjust herweight,movingfromonefoottotheother.‘Not really, no,’ she

answered, and she sighed.Twice.‘Oh, okay,’ she said

eventually, her expressionbeaten, jaded. ‘Okay, Roz,one more chance.’ And

before I had time to expressmy gratitude, before I had achance to tell her I wouldabsolutely not let it happenagain, she reacheddownandliftedhertrouserleg.‘Idon’tsupposeyou’vegot

tenminutes tohavea lookatmyknee,haveyou?’

3

LOOKINGBACK, I can see howeverything was ultimatelybuilding towards this point,the point when life went offatacrazytangent,butIthinkitwasthenoteitselfthatwasthe trigger for the series of

eventsthatfollowed.

DON’TGOINSIDEISMELLGASLOVECELIA

Itwastapedtomyfrontdoorandhadbeenputtherebymyneighbour.Celiahad lived inthevillage for fiveyears andwas not a native; shewas infact a Scouser. But if youasked her where she hailedfrom, she’d say, ‘Southport,

Lancashire’, in her besttelephone voice. (Notice:Lancashire, not Merseyside.An important distinction,apparently.)WhenIfirstmovedintothe

cottagewehada fewrun-ins–Celia getting herself into astateoffractiousagitationifIleftthewheeliebinattheendof the garden path for morethan two days running, or ifmy living-room curtainsremained closed while I was

atworkor,heavenforbid,ifIleft my washing on the linewhen her book club was inattendance. Celia was aterrible snob. A working-classwomanwholikedtoletyou know that she was thaneveryone else. Itwas terriblyamusingand,unexpectedly, Ihadgrowntoloveherforit.We reached an agreement

early on whereby, because Ididn’t have time to give thecottage thekerbappealCelia

deemed necessary, andbecause she lived in mortalfear of falling propertyvalues,Celiahadakeytomyplace. Anything that wasgoing to fray her nerves, Itoldhertoaddressherself.Soher husbandwould bringmybin in the very second thewaste wagon left. I wouldarrivehometofindthefringeofgrassedgesneatlytrimmedin the front garden, or smallpinkstainsonthepathwhere

Celia had pouredweed killeron my dandelions. Lately, Icouldfeelheritchingtoaffixa hanging basket or two, tomatchherfour,butshehadn’tyetbroachedthesubject.I pulled the note from the

door. ‘Come on,’ I said toGeorge, ‘let’s go to Celia’s.’This was the last thing Ineeded, to be honest. Wewere supposed to be out thehouse again by 7.30 for mysister’s party.George needed

feeding and we both neededsmartening up. Glancing hisway, I noticed some hairmissing above his right ear.How I’d missed it earlier, Ihad no idea, because therewasquiteachunkgone.‘What’sgoingon there?’ I

said,gesturing.‘I’mnotsure.’‘George,’Isaid.‘Idon’tremember.’A quick word about fibs.

You’ve noticed, I’m certain,

the inability of little boys totell the truth. Don’t hold itagainst them.They’re simplyafraid of making us cross.‘George, I’m not angry withyou,Ijustwanttoknowwhyyou’vecutawaysuchalargepieceofyourhair.’‘IneededitforacreatureI

wasmaking,’hesaid.‘Seems reasonable,’ I

replied.We made our way down

the path, out the front gate

andalongtheshortstretchofroad to Celia’s. ‘I’m reallythirsty.Ineedadrink,Mum,’Georgesaid,andIsaid,‘Youand me both.’ The heat wasfierce: thick, heavy airtrapped in the basin formedby the surrounding fells. Ipulled my tunic away frommy midriff in a waftingmotion,alameattempttogetsome ventilation. Sweattrickled down my skin,makingmeitch.

Celia’s house was adetachedcottage.Ourswasasemi; the other side of myhousewas a holiday home. Ineversawtheowners.Insteadtherewasaparadeof similarkinds of people – folk whosmiledifthesunwasshining,were grim-faced anduncommunicative if it wasnot.Remember the village of

Greendale, from thechildren’s television

programme Postman Pat?Well, Greendale doesn’texist, but itwasmodelledonLongsleddale, a spot over ontheothersideofthelake,andit’s close enough to form afairly accurate picture ofHawkshead. Five hundredpeopleliveinthevillageand,aside from the holidaymakers, everyone really doesknow everyone. Set amongstfarmland (mostly used forgrazing sheep), the stone or

white-rendered cottages arebordered by dry-stone walls.Those of us in the villagecentre benefit from gas andmains drainage, those on theoutskirts heat their homeswith electricity, or morecommonly oil, and haveseptictanks.Everyonewithina mile of the village centrehasasmallnoticenexttotheloo, requesting guests not toflush anything other than thenecessaries, and the smallest

amount of toilet tissue. It’ssomething you’re used to ifyou’vegrownupwithit.Likesterilized milk and half-dayclosing.Celia must have been

loitering by her window,looking out for us, as thesecond we opened her gateshe was at the front door.‘Good Lord, George!’ shedeclared loudly. ‘What onearth have you done to yourhair?’ I suppose hewas kind

ofscalpedabovehisear.‘Helooks like that simple lad,Billy. You know, from OneFlew over the Cuckoo’sNest?’Shewasfrowning,herchin retracted. ‘Doesn’t he,Roz?’‘What does she mean,

Mum?’ George whispered,worried, as we approachedthehouse.‘Nothing. Just anold film.

Billywasthekickasshero,’Ilied.

‘You saw the note?’ Celiaasked, and I nodded. ‘Comein, come in,’ she said andushered us through. Georgeremoved his shoesautomatically without beinginstructedtodoso.‘Did you call Transco?’ I

asked her, and she didn’tanswer. Instead she becamemomentarilyflustered,tellingGeorgeto‘GothroughtothebackkitchenandfindDennis.He’sout theremessingabout

with his tomato plants. AndFoxy’sinthegarden,too.’FoxywasCelia’s old dog.

She was a spiteful, peevishlittle terrier who hated kidsbut for some reason allowedGeorge access to her bellywhen she was in the rightmood. She had recentlystarted to refuse to walk onthe lead. That is, unless, shewas heading back home. Sonow Celia and Dennis couldbe seen driving to the other

sideofthevillage,earlyeachmorning, whereupon Denniswould deposit Celia andFoxy, and they would walkback. Celia was delightedwith this ruse, proclaimingFoxytobe‘almostsprightly’,evenpullingonthelead.George traipsedoff to find

thedog,andCeliaswallowedhardbeforespeaking.‘Aproblem,’shebegan.‘Agasproblem,’Isaid.‘Afraidnot. Iput thatnote

there to stop you fromgoinginside. I didn’t want Georgetosee.’‘Toseewhat?’‘Prepareyourself,Roz, the

bailiffshavebeen.’‘Whatdidtheytake?’‘The lot. Well, all except

thebeds,becausetheybelongto your landlord, apparently,who has also been slitheringaround,leavinghisusualtrailof slime, asking if I’d seenyou. He left you a note

demanding payment, Ibelieve.’‘I’mlatewiththerent.’‘I did assume,’ she said.

‘Anyway, the three-piecesuitehasgone—’‘I was paying that off,’ I

interrupted.‘As well as the dining-

roomfurniture,thecooker—’‘Thecooker?’‘They said that was on

financeaswell.’I sank down heavily on to

Celia’s sofa. ‘It was.’ Isighed,rememberingnow.‘I think they would have

hadyourcarawayaswell, ifyou were home. Good job Isaw them,because theywereabout tobreak in through thefront door. They said you’dbe liable for the damage tothat, too.’ She paused. Thensaid, ‘Bastards!’emphatically, beforecontinuing. ‘So in the end Ilet them in with the key.

Sorry, Roz, but they had allthe right legal paperwork. IgotDennistotakealookatitbefore,andhesaidyoudidn’thavealegtostandon.’Dennis used to work in a

solicitor’s. Doing what, I’mnot entirely sure. Celia,naturally, liked to give theimpressionhewasasolicitor,but Ihadnoticed thatDennishad been quick to point outon more than one occasionthat he was not really

qualifiedtogiveadvice.Sittingwithmyheadinmy

hands,ItoldCeliathatitwasokaytousethekey.‘Youdidthe right thing,’ I said,becauseshewaswringingherhands and I could tell shewasn’t surehow Iwasgoingtoreact.‘I thought it best to stick

that note on the door, andthen you could prepareGeorge.Notniceforthechildto get home and have no

furniture.’‘Did they take his

PlayStation?’Celianodded.‘Bloody stupid thing to

have anyway,’ I said.‘Typical of his father. Wecan’taffordtoputfuel in thecarandhegoesandbuyshimthat. And of course Georgeloves him for it. Thinks I’mCruella when I can’t buygamesforthething.’‘That’s men for you. No

commonsense.’‘Christ, Celia,’ I said, the

full weight of what hadhappened now dawning onme.‘WhatthehellamIgoingtodo?’

I left George with Celia andwenttoinspectthehouse.Theplacehadbeengutted.

They’d taken stuff I didn’teven know I owned until itwas gone. Pictures I wasn’tparticularly fondof.Cookery

books I never had time toread but were part of myhistory, that time when Irevelled in domesticity for afew short, wonderful monthswhenGeorgewasborn.It was like going back to

the seventies when peopleowned nothing. When bareasphalt floors were the normand orange crates doubled asbedsidecabinets.There was even an ugly,

gaping gash in the fitted

kitchenwheretheovenoughttobe.That’swhenImadethedecision not to face theproblem tonight. Georgeneeded a quick bite to eatbefore we were to leave forPetra’s party. ‘Dress smart!Think cocktail dress!’ she’dinscribed on the invitationwithasilvermetallicgelpen.And so I headed back toCelia’s with a change ofclothes for us both, ready tocollect George, with a hasty

planforminginmymind:I would have one large

glass of cold, white TorresViñaSol in theKing’sArms(low ceilings, horse brasses,welcoming smell of beerhanging heavily in the air)whileGeorgeshovelleddownCumberland sausage andchips,andthenIwouldtacklethefurniturecrisis,explainingto George the reality of ournewsituation.Thenotefrommylandlord

wouldjusthavetowait.

4

GEORGE SAT IN the front seatof the Jeepwitha clip-on tieandaworriedexpression.‘WillIhavetogoandlive

withNannaDylis?’heasked,after I’d finished explainingwhat had happened to the

furniture and given him aquick lecture on that basicprinciple: don’t spend moremoneythanyouhave.‘No,’ I replied, hoping he

wouldn’t sense theuncertaintyinmyvoice.We were just about to

board the ferry to cross thelake to Petra’s house inWindermere, so Georgebecame silent. There’s atricky bit that must benegotiated,wheretherampof

the ferrymeets thedip in theshoreline. If you don’t drivecarefullyyou’reliabletotakeouttheundersideofyourcar.NotsuchaprobleminaJeep,but hell if you’re in a low-sittingsportscar.OnceI’dcuttheengineand

was neatly positioned I toldGeorge he could speak againifhewantedto.‘This is because of Dad,

isn’tit?’hesaid.‘Honestly?’Ireplied.‘Yes.

But there’s no point blaminghim, because it gets usnowhere. What we’re goingtodoisputitoutofourheadsuntil after Auntie Petra’sparty. Let’s enjoy ourselvestonight and worry about ittomorrow.We’vegotbedstosleep in, we’ve got runningwater, and we’ve got eachother.We’llbefine.’The truth was, though, we

weren’tfine.WhenWinston left Icould

nolongermakethemortgagepaymentsoneitherourhouseormybusinesspremises,andtheywere repossessedby thebank. Coupled with that,Winston had run up debts tothe tune of twelve thousandon a credit card that was inour joint names, and now Iwas barely covering theminimalmonthlypayments.Though I couldn’t blame

Winstontotally.Five years ago, life was

good. We were earningplenty,wespentfreely(moremoney thanwehad), andwethoughtitwouldcontinuelikethat for ever. But an eventwas tocauseachange inourcircumstances, andwe didn’tchange alongwith them.Notnearly fast enough anyhow.Winston’s building firm lostits major contract and hishourswerecut,alongwithhishourly rate. Ultimately, wefell apart.Winston left and I

foundmyselfwithoutahome,withoutabusiness,andwithasmallchildtosupport.I probably should have

declared bankruptcy at thatpoint, but a combination ofpride and a fear of beingrefused credit in the futurepreventedme fromdoing so.Iborrowedsomemoneyfrommysisterforadeposit,rentedahouse,purchasedafewbitsand pieces on finance tofurnish the place, and now,

thanks to Winston and theexorbitantmonthlyinterestonthe credit card, I carried adebt of close to eighteenthousandpounds.After rent, the cost of my

car, food,householdbills theferry, after-school club, andthe loan repayments, mywage from the clinic left mewith around fifty pounds amonth to spare – if thingsdidn’t go wrong. And thingsalwayswentwrong.

I glanced at George tocheck if he was okay withwhatI’djusttoldhim,andheseemed tobe.Hisexpressionbecame wistful, as if he’dalready moved on to otherthings.Kids.Soresilient.‘Foxybitme,’hesaidafter

aminuteortwo.‘Again?’ I asked, and he

nodded.‘Didithurt?’‘No.’‘Showme,’Isaid.He held out his hand and

therewasa small, raisednubof flesh on his knuckle, butnobreaktotheskin.‘Shedidn’tmean todo it,’

hesaid.‘Sometimesshecan’thelp it. I don’t think sherealized it was me. Is sheblind?Celiasayssheis.’‘Getting that way,’ I

replied. ‘Although Dennisreckons she can see nextdoor’scatwellenough.’We had a dog. Once. A

three-year-old shaggy lurcher

which George named Cesarafter his hero, the ‘DogWhisperer’, Cesar Millan.GeorgeaskedforadogeveryChristmas and birthday fromthe time hewas able to talk.When he was six, Winstonand I finally acquiesced, andthere never was a happierchildthanGeorgeToovey.Two years later and after

Winston moved out, the doghadtoleave,too.Wetriedtomake it work. But finding a

rentalpropertywhichalloweddogs,andthehoursIspentatmyjobmadeituntenable.I’dliketosayGeorgeboughtthelie all parents tell their kidswhen they’ve taken their pettotheshelter–theonewherethedoggoestoliveonafarmsomewhere, running free, allhappily ever after – butGeorgeinsistedonmycallingtheRescueMeanimalsheltertocheckCesarwasokayandwas told by a kind woman

that he’d been adopted by alittleboyaroundhisownagewho was enjoying his newcompanionimmensely.George still wasn’t over it

and was counting down theweeks until we could movefromourcurrentaddress intoa more permanentaccommodation, whereanimals were allowed. I toldhimthiswouldn’tbeanytimesoon, but he remainedundeterred, keeping his dog-

ownershipskillsuptodatebycontinuing to watch CesarMillan whenever he stayedover at Winston’s mother’shouse. She was fortunateenoughtohaveSkyTV.I smiled at George and

reached across, tousling hishair above his bald patch. ‘Iloveyou,youknow,’Isaidtohim.‘Love you more,’ he said

back.We drove with the

windows down because theACwasoutofgas.Alongtheroadside there were moundsof cut grass and theirdesiccatedhayscentfilledtheair. Couples walked arm inarm, making their way intoBowness for the evening.George rested his elbow outthewindow,ashe’dobservedadultmendo.Butnothavingsufficient length in his arms,he was forced to leanawkwardlyagainstthedoor.

My hair whipped aroundmy face, strands sticking tomy lipstick, some gettingcaught in the tiny hingemechanismofmysunglasses.WhenwearrivedatPetra’s

Icheckedmyfaceintherear-view mirror and quicklyapplied some lipstick andmascara. I’m not great withmake-up. I mention this notas one of those statementsyou hear from irritatingwomen – you know, when

you’re supposed to feel crapbecauseyou trowel it on andthey’re already naturallybeautifulwithoutit.No,Ifeelkind of silly wearing it, andonly do so when forced. Onoccasionssuchasthis.At my sister’s house I

stood on the front step,rearranged my hair, adjustedthe straps of my halternecksummer dress and whisperedtoGeorgenot tomention thesituation at home. When he

raised his eyebrowsquestioningly, I toldhim thiswasPetra’snightandIdidn’twant her to worry about us.Whichwasmostlytrue.Vince, my brother-in-law,

swungthedooropenwithhisusualgusto, tookone lookatmypaintedface,andgrinned,saying, ‘What’ve you comeas?’‘Nottonight,Vince,’Isaid,

pushingpasthim.‘I’mnotinthemood.’

‘Hey, Georgie boy!’ hesaid,slappingGeorge’sraisedhand. ‘How are you, myfriend?’‘Very well, thank you …

under the circumstances,’repliedGeorgea little stiffly,andVinceshotmealook.‘Arewevery late?’ I said,

avoiding.‘No more than usual,’

Vince shrugged beforeturning his attention back toGeorge. ‘C’mon, kiddo,’ he

said, ‘let’s get you armedwith sugar and a ton of Enumbers, ready to face theteam of petites dragonettesupstairs.’Vincewasmoreathomein

the companyof kids.After acouple of beers you wouldfind him wearing mascara(appliedbadly),andwithoneof Petra’s underskirts on hishead (long, princess hair),after he’d been attacked byhis daughter and her bossy

littlefriends.Hewasgoodwiththegirls,

but it was commonknowledge thatVince craveda son. Petra had managed toquashthat ideabysellingthenotion that her death was anabsolute certainty if shebecame pregnant again. Thiswas on account of the highblood pressure andgestational diabetes she hadsufferedwhencarryingClara.So Vince had to make do

withGeorge.Notideal,sinceGeorge had no interest infootball, rugby and motorracing.But theyhad recentlyfound some common groundwhenplayingpoker.And theoccasionalgameofcrib.In the kitchen Vince

poured me a glass ofchampagne with somethingbright and syrupy-sweetfloating on the top. ‘Can’t Ijust have it on its own?’ Iasked him, frowning at the

glass.‘Notanoption.’My sister went through

thesephases.Adding stuff tomake things more excitingand ruining them in theprocesswasone.With his head cocked to

onesideandaquicksidewaysglance, Vince said, ‘Nadinehad these at her fiftieth,’mimickinghiswife,‘andtheywentdownverywellwiththecrowd.’

‘Oh, well, if Nadine hadthem,’ I replied, playingalong.Nadine and her husband,

Scott, were Petra’s currentfixation. Petra was prone totheseobsessions–asIsaid,atthe moment it was Nadineand Scott Elias, but it couldjustaseasilyhavebeenslow-cooked shin of beef orNational Trust lighthouseproperties.The women had become

friends whilst watching themenplaycharitycricket, andat the moment Petra wouldslip Nadine’s name intoalmost every sentence,thoughnotinaboastfulway;I think it was involuntary.Much like when you’re inthose early, exquisite stagesof a relationship, and yourlover’s name trips from yourtongue so readily that youcouldn’t stop it even if youtried.

Vince took a can of Fantafrom the drinks fridge,pressing it into George’shand, saying, ‘Good luck upthere,myfriend,’andGeorgescooted off upstairs, but notbefore telling Vince that allourfurniturehaddisappeared.‘What?’ said Vince,

turning tome,while I glaredhardatGeorge’sback.But IwavedawayVince’s

concern, telling him itwas atemporary blip, before

stridingoutintothegarden.I had Petra’s present

(sparkly, hooped earrings) inone hand, a bottle ofchampagne in the other, andannounced my presence byasking loudly, ‘Where’s thebirthdaygirl?’withalotmorejubilancethanIhadcausefor.

There is always acompromise tobemadewithproperty on this side of thelake. Planning restrictions in

theNationalParkdictate thatpeople are stuck with thehouses they’ve got – unlessyou’ve got a spare threemillion to buy the 1950sbungalow on the lakeshore,and then you can bulldoze itand pop yourMcMansion inits place. The rest of thecommunity buys what theycanafford,andthenmakedoUsually, forfeiting internalspace, and as often as not, adecentgarden.

No one has a regular-shaped lawn in Windermereand Bowness – either theterrain is toosteepor it’scutoffatananglebyabrookor,commonly – and this wasbefore the planningdepartment becameunwaveringly strict –residents built second homeson their plots to generatesomeextracash.The consequence of this

was that Petra and Vince

were the only people I knewto have a lovely, enclosed,rectangularpieceof turfwithgreat views of the LangdalePikes. These pretty westernfells – like the Rockies’SawtoothRange inminiature–arepinkwhenreflectingtheearly-morning sun andbecome bathed in a gloriousorange light as the sun setsbehind them. Which meantgatherings at Petra andVince’s often had a kind of

bank-holidayfeel.Therewerepicnicbenches,

wicker sofas, meticulouslytended flower beds, andthough Vince tended to belaid-back about most thingsin life, his lawn was grade-one bowling-green turf,which he tended tocontinuously. He would snipaway at stray edges withkitchenscissors,asonemightdo with award-winningtopiary.

I made my way from thepatio over to Petra,whowasservingmyparentswiththeirusual – non-alcoholic lagerfor my dad, cranberry juicefor my mum (cystitissufferer). After I’d greetedeveryone and apologized formy tardiness, my dadinformed me that he andMum would not be stayinglong, followed by, ‘Youknowus,wedon’t like tobeout late.What with the long

drivewehavetodonow,andall,’ and I said, ‘No, no, ofcourse,’ both of us droppingour heads to avoid eyecontact.They had begun to look

frail of late. Their naturalvigour was starting to wane.My mother, particularly,moved carefully now, asthoughrecoveringfromabadfall,anditoccurredtomethatperhaps she had in factsustainedone,andhadkeptit

toherself.I told them I’d round

George up in amoment, thathe’d been eager to getupstairs to his cousin, whichwas not exactly true. Thereason I didn’t send Georgestraight out to see hisgrandparents was because Iwas frightened he’d blab tothem about the missingfurniture. And they worriedaboutmy financesenoughasitwas.

‘Roz! Roz, come and chatto Scott and Nadine,’ Petrasaid now, draggingme awayby the elbow. ‘I’m dying foryoutomeetthem.They’resolovely. I can’t believe theycame. And wait till I showyou what Scott brought. Seethat wine over there?’ Shemotioned to the benches onthepatio,whichweredressedwith white table-cloths. ‘Hebroughtthreecases!’‘It’s good wine?’ I asked,

not really knowing what tosay.‘What?’ she said,

frowning. ‘Of course it’sgood wine. Scott doesn’tdrinkcrap.Hehasaguywhopicksoutthebestforhimanddelivers. Anyway, don’tmention it, or he gets a bituncomfortable. He’s veryhumbleabouthiswealth.’‘Iwasn’tgoingto.’‘Scott, Nadine,’ said Petra

asweapproached,‘thisismy

sister,RozToovey.She’sthephysiotherapist I was tellingyou about. Roz is super-talented. She can fix anyone.Even people who have beeninpainforyears.’Icoughedandstuckoutmy

hand. ‘I fear Petra might beoverselling me. Pleased tomeet you, Nadine. Whatprettyhairyouhave.’‘She travels toManchester

for highlights, don’t you,Nadine?’ cut in Petra as

Nadinerose,takingmyhand,tellingme how glad shewasfinallytomeetme.Shekissedmeonbothcheeks,andtherewas that awkward momentwhereoneperson(thatwouldbe me) pulls away after asingle kiss, not expecting thesecond.It’ssuchaneasywayto wrong-foot a Northerner.‘We’ve heard somuch aboutyou,’ she said, smilinggenuinely.‘Likewise,’ I replied, and

thenwhispered in her ear, ‘Ithink Petra’s a little bit inlovewithyou,actually.’Nadine was gracious

enough to take thecomplimentwithasmallraiseof her eyebrows, then sheushered me towards herhusband.‘Scott Elias,’ he said and,

again, two kisses. He wasaround six foot, stood verysure of himself and couldhavebeenalittle imposingif

it weren’t for the way hesmiled.Hedid it inaway toindicateitwasarealpleasuretomeetme,asthoughhewasgenuinelyinterestedinwhatIhadtosay.‘Perhaps you could take a

look at my elbow when youhave a moment?’ he began,andNadinegavehima swiftnudge.‘He’s joking,’ she said

flatly.‘Aren’tyou,darling?’‘Yes. Absolutely,’ he

replied, ducking as thoughexpectingaswipeathishead,courtesy of Nadine.‘Wouldn’t dream of askingsomething so inappropriateonafirstmeeting.’Butpeopledo.Forsomereasontheydon’t

equate my job as having theusual boundaries. I didn’tknowhowScotthadmadehismoney, or exactly what lineof business he was in, butlet’s say for argument’s sake

hewasa landscapegardener.Asking me to take a quicklookathiselbowwasakintomeaskinghimtopopovertomy house and dig over therough patch of land to therear of the property. Orasking a chef if he wouldn’tmind rustling up a fewcanapés because wewere allfeelingpeckish.Anyway, I didn’t hold it

against him as, likemost, hesaid itwithout thinking.And

people ask about theirailments because it’s aconversation starter and theycan’tthinkofanythingelsetosay.Likethrowingapunchata

black belt in Karate, andsaying,‘AndwhatwouldyoudoifIdidthis?’We talked pleasantries for

awhile– thegloriousstretchof weather we wereexperiencing–and,likemanypeople I talked to, Scottwas

enjoying it all the morebecause the south of thecountry had rain. I askedNadine about her children,and proudly she said heryoungestwasinToulouseforthesummer,beforestartingatWarwick in September, andtheireldestwasattheLondonFilm School. At this shepulled a face to indicate shewasn’tsurewhatwouldcomeof that. Scott and she notbeingartisticpeople, thishad

comequiteoutoftheblue.Well, this is unexpected, I

thought.Theywerenice.I’d anticipated feeling

fairly contemptuous towardsthem after the incessantcommentaryfromPetraabouthow Scott Elias does this,NadineElias does that. Scotthasadriverwhoispartofthefamily, Nadine likes freshflowers in every room, everysingle day, the florist brings

them specially, blah, blah,blah.But they seemed normal.

Quitedowntoearth,infact.Of course, Nadine was

more polished than youraveragewoman. Every smalldetailwasrefined,elevatedtomaketheabsolutemostofherfeatures.Thinkofanordinarysong after Giorgio Moroderhas pimped it up, and you’llgetthegeneralidea.She,likeScott,wasinherearlyfifties.

Shewasaneat, trimwoman,fine boned, with delicatewrists and ankles. She wasdressedinwhite,wide-leggedtrouserswith a scoop-neckedtop and wore a simplediamond on a chain at herthroat.‘Are you on your own?’

Nadine asked, casting hereyesaroundasshelookedfora suitable match with whomshecouldplaceme.‘Yes,’Ireplied.

ForatimeIusedtofillthevoid following this enquirywith explanations, with self-deprecating remarks aboutmysinglestatus,allthewhilebeingratherjollysoasnottomake the other person feelbadinanyway.NowIcouldn’tbearsed.‘No man in your life?’

askedScott.Before Ihad thechance to

reply Petra butted in. ‘WhatRoz needs,’ she said, ‘is a

good, steady guy. You don’thappen to have any nicesinglefriends,doyou,Scott?’Scott made a show of

thinking through hisacquaintances, frowning asthoughweighingupeachonecarefully. Then he lookeddirectly at me, holding mygaze for a few seconds toolong, making sure I noticed.Making sure, in that waysomemen do, that you havebeensetfirmlyintheirsights.

‘I don’t, I’m afraid,’ he said.‘They’realltaken.’‘Often the way,’ I said

quickly, embarrassed.‘Anyway,thanksforthat,butas Petra knows, good andwell,I’moffmenforthetimebeing.’‘They’re not all like

Winston,’ said Petra, a littlesharply. ‘They’re not allgoingtodowhathedid.’I gave Petra a look as

though to say,Not now, and

replied, ‘Yes,well, I’d rathernottakethechance,’brushingit offwith a laugh and a rollofmyeyes.Though our words were

innocuous enough, I wouldsay itwas evident byPetra’stonethattherewassomethingelse at play here, and the airbecame charged by ourexchange.Sensing this, Scott jumped

to his feet. ‘Let me get youanother drink, Roz,’ he said.

‘Here,sityourself—’‘Thank you, but no. I’ve

had my quota. I’ve got todrivehome,unfortunately.’‘That’s a real shame,’ he

saidand,again,thelook.At this Petra exhaled

noisily. ‘Oh, for goodness’sakes, Roz, get yourselfanotherdrink.You’restayinghere.’‘No,I—’But Scott was off. And

within seconds he returned

with what must have beenhalfapintofredwine.I rolled it around the

enormous glass a couple oftimes,transfixedastheliquidclungtothesides, leavinganoilyamberhue.I didn’t ask what type it

was. I didn’t want toembarrass myself. Instead, Ithrew it back, told Scott itwas absolutely exceptionalandwentofftogetanother.

Two hours later, and I waspretty sozzled. Petra wasbeing loud and funny andenjoyable to watch. Hertongue became loose andgossipy when she’d had adrink and she was switchingbetweenanecdotesfromwork– she was a schoolreceptionist – and fallingback into default mode,where she informed thelistenerofthepickleinwhichI’dfoundmyself:

‘And then Roz wakes up,and he’s gone! Cleared offback to his mother’s afterrunninguphugedebts inhername.Andnowshecan’tgetapennyoutofhim.Andshe’sinahugefinancialmess.Isn’tthatright,Roz?’‘That’s about the size of

it,’Isaidsleepily.Vincewas lighting thegas

heater.Therewere justa fewofusleftoutsidenowandthenight was still warm, though

chillyontheskinifyouwerewithoutacardigan.ThebacksofmyupperarmsweregoosepimpledandScotthandedmehis sweater, asking if Ineededit,butItoldhimIwasokay, that I’d nip inside andgetacoupleof fleece throwsfromthesofasowecouldallkeepwarm.‘Does thisbotheryou?’he

whispered, leaning in close,gesturing to Petra, who wasnow in the full throes of

explaining to Nadine howmen get around the ChildSupport Agency. Nadine’sbrow was knitted in concernasPetratoldherofnumerousfathers from school who’dfled and were out of work,meaning their wives andfamiliesreceivedprettymuchzilch in the way of supportpayments.‘Not really,’ I told Scott.

‘It’s hardly a secret. I justdon’tthinkeveryonewantsto

hear about it on a night out.That’s why I try to shut herup. A losing battle, as youcansee.’Again, he held my gaze,

and I felt something shiftinside.Ilookedaway.Alarmbellswentoffinmy

head. Married men were offlimits, simple as that. I rose,asking if anyone wantednibbles,asIwasgoinginside.I told Petra I’d check on the

kidswhileIwasatit,butshewas in the zone, lecturingpoor Nadine on how thesystem was skewed againstwomen, because, ‘You can’tup and leave your own kidslike men, can you? Yourbiologywon’tletyou.’I went upstairs, paid a

quick visit to the loo andlistened outside Clara’sbedroomforamoment.Vincehad put the kids to bedearlier, telling ghost stories

(his speciality) about theGrey Lady and the HeadlessHorseman, old favourites heprobablyfrightenedlittlegirlswith back when he was achildhimself.I pushed the door open a

fraction. The kids were stillup – Clara, George and thetwolittlegirlsfromnextdoorwhose names escaped me.Onewasadozy-lookingchildwithapermanentlywetlowerlip who hung on Clara’s

everyword.Theyweresittingin a circle, beneath a cottonsheet,withatorch.I pushed open the door

fully. ‘Time to get to sleep,kids,’ I said softly, and therewas the silent movement oflittlebodiesfrombeneaththesheet as they climbed insidetheirbeds.‘Goodnight,’Iwhispered.I headed downstairs,

grabbed the throws andwentoutsidewithafamilypackof

salt-and-vinegar Chipsticks,taking my place by the gasheater. Petrawas laughing atsomething, trying to stand,butshecouldn’tgetoutofherchair, so she sank downagain,beaten.‘You okay there, Roz?’

Scottasked.‘Long day,’ I replied,

tryingtomakemyeyesmatchmy smile. I’d been thinkingabout the bailiffs and myemptyhouse.

Petra was now rantingabout Winston’s cheating,asking the small crowd whyanyone would want to cheaton someone as lovely as hersister.She tipped her glass my

way, in case anyone hadforgotten who I was, and Ifoundmyself saying,withoutreally thinking, ‘Do youknow, apersononce toldmethey wished Winston hadvisited a prostitute instead of

havingaffairs?’Someonecoughed.‘What?’saidPetra.‘Aprostitute,’Irepeated.‘I

supposeitwouldhavebeenahell of lot less hassle in thelongrun,’Iaddedabsently.There was a stunned

silence. Everyone turned tomeandstared.Petra put her drink down.

‘JesusChrist,Roz,’shesaid.I glanced around, and I

could see by the look of

confusion and awkwardnessoneachfacethatthiswasnota commonly held belief. Thewomenseemedaffronted,andthemendidn’tknowwheretolook.‘It does go on,’ I said,

trying to justifywhat I’d justsaid.At this Nadine leaned

forward in her seat. Herexpressionchanged tooneofgenuine inquiry, as thoughshe was open-minded and

wanted toknowmore. ‘Whatmakes you say that?’ shesaid,blinkingalittle.‘Doyouknow people who frequentthem?’‘Crikey, no,’ I said. ‘Of

coursenot. It’s just that afterWinston’s affairs were madepublic, one poor guy –Gileswashisname–whosefamilyhad brokenup on account ofWinstoncarryingonwithhiswife,saidtome,“Wouldn’tithave just been easier if

Winston had used aprofessional?”’Petrabegantopanic.What

was I doing talking like thisinfrontofherniceguests?‘And, in that moment, I

couldsortofseehispoint,’ Isaid. ‘If Winston had takenhimself off, instead ofsleepingwithhalfthewomenaround here – women whowere married, women whohad families – then therewouldn’t be all those broken

homesasaresult.’Petra gasped. ‘I can’t

believeyou’reseriously—’‘Oh,Petra,’Isaid,sighing.

‘I’mnotbeingserious.’‘Yousoundveryserious.’‘I’m not. But, honestly,

you don’t know what it wasliketohavethosepoorbereftmen glaring at you like it’syour fault. Like, if I’d keptbetter tabs on Winston, thenhewouldn’thavejumpedintobed with their wives. I’m

only saying that if Winstonhad filled up whatever needhe feltneeded fillingwithoutwrecking everyone’s lives intheprocess,I’dprobablyhavemorerespectforhim.’‘Good God,’ said Petra

standing up. ‘Why did heneed to do it at all, Roz? Ican’tbelieveyou’rejustifyingit.’‘I’mnotjustifyingit.’‘Don’t look at me,’ Vince

cutin.Hewasholdinguphis

palmsininnocence.‘Igetallthe excitement I need righthere.’Petra was dismayed. She

raised her hands above herheadas though towardoff ablow.She looked from me to

Scott,toNadine,toVince.Ihadruinedtheevening.Ihadruinedeverything.Hereyesprickedwithtears

before she rose and hurryiedoffinsidethehouse.

5

CLOTHINGCOVERSAmultitudeofsins.You’ve probably already

figured out that real peopledon’t resemble theairbrushed, Photoshoppedimagesyousee in themedia.

IreadasmashingquotefromCindy Crawford recentlywho, upon being asked howshe felt about those images,replied, ‘Iwish I looked likeCindyCrawford.’God love her for that.

Becauseyouwouldn’tbelievethe amount of people (menincluded) who apologize forthestateoftheirbodieswhenremovingtheirclothes.Consider the following a

public-serviceannouncement.

Ihavetreatedagrandtotalof two skinny women in mytwenty years of practicewhohave naturally big boobs. Ihave treated (at the lastreckoning, anyway) zeropatients over forty-five yearsof age who don’t sagsomewhere. Even thedesperately thin ones. Youget them to turn over andtheir skin falls away fromtheir bodies in the mostremarkableway.

Beautifully curved ladiesare criss-crossed withCaesarean scars, withstriations of stretch marks,with indentations as if theywere still wearing anunderwiredbra.Bodybuildingmen have purple, keloid-scarred,acnedbacksandgiveoff apeculiar smell fromsteroid use. Elderly, wiry,super-fit fell runners oftenhave bulging varicose veinslike small bunches of grapes

ontheircalvesandhaveflapsof surplus skin around theirupperarmsandribcages.Voluptuous young women

can be covered in black hairall the way from their naveltotheirknees,courtesyofthecruel polycystic-ovarysyndrome.There are botched tattoos,

missingtoes,missingslabsofmuscle,missingbreasts.Thisisthehumanbody.Itdoesnotlooklikeitdoes

in the movies. But thatdoesn’t make it any lesswondrous, any less perfectlysuited to doing everythingyou ask of it. Given thechance, the body will fixitself. Given rest and someTLC,itwillrecover,generatenew tissues, even new nervepathways. It is constantlyaiming to return to a state ofbalance, a state ofequilibrium. And if it can’t?That’swhereIcomein.

Physiotherapy is thetreatmentofthebodythroughphysicalmeans.Ifthebodyisoutofbalance,Ilaymyhandson it to initiate the healingprocess. No drugs. I shouldpoint out, however, that thisis not an exact science – noarea of medicine is. You tryonething,anditeitherworksoritdoesn’t.There was a sign hung in

mytreatment roomthat read:‘I AM NOT JESUS.’ Though

sometimes I wonderedexactlywhathishit ratewas.Imean,didhecureeveryonehe came into contact with? Isuspectednot. I suspectedhecouldn’t have done much tohelp my next patient of theday – one of my failures. Icouldn’t improve hersymptoms,whateverItried.During the first

consultation Rosemary Johnsgreetedmewiththenewsthatshe had been to every single

therapist in the area and noonecouldgether right.Nowthis sort of opening wouldusuallyleadoneoftwoways.Either I examined thepatientandbecamequitegiddyuponspottingtheveiledsymptomIknewtheotherclinicianshadmissed, or my heart sankbecause the patient was oneof those people who justdidn’twanttogetbetter.With Rosemary it was the

latter.

(Off topic, but patientssuch as this just won’t dieeither.When Iworked in theNHSI’dreadtheinitialsCTDin the margin of a patient’snotes with a queasy kind ofdread – Circling the Drain.Theycouldbe inhospital foryears.)Anyway,mystateofmind

was notwhat you’d call freeandeasywhenIcalledoutforRosemary Johns on Mondaymorning. The weekend had

beenhellish.Petrawasbarelyspeaking to me after I hadhumiliated her beyondforgiveness on Friday night,she was so distressed aboutthe impression I’d made onScott and Nadine.Unbeknownst to her,however, Vince had droppedby my house on Saturday,slipping me a fifty anddepositingtwooldarmchairs,a nest of tables and a cookerwith a decade’s worth of

greaseonit.His friend had pulled the

unwanted furniture out of ahouse clearance over nearRydal Water, and Vincerightly thought I couldmakeuse of it until I got back onmy feet. I spent most ofSunday applying for anotherbatch of credit cards, hopingtheover inflatedearnings I’dclaimedtobringinwouldnotbecheckedouttoocloselysothat I could replace some of

the furniture the bailiffs hadremoved. I’d have to wait aweek to find out if I’d beenapproved.Sothismorningitwashard

to hide my surprise and, Isuppose, my relief, whenRosemary Johns’s mournfulface did not appear at mytreatment-room door, butrather,ScottElias.‘Ihopeyoudon’tmind,’he

said. ‘I called for anappointment earlier and they

told me they had thiscancellation. Were youhopingforabreak?’‘A break?’ I said,

momentarily confused. ‘Oh,no, I don’t really get breaks.Wayne fills the cancellationswithpatientsfromthewaitinglist. I’m surprised to see youhere, though.Youmust havejumpedthequeue.’Scott went sheepish. ‘I

might have offered a littlesweetener.’

I smiled. ‘I won’t ask.Anyway, come on in. WhatcanIdoforyou?’‘Myelbow?Remember?’Inodded.‘Haveaseat,and

I’ll get your details down.ThenI’lltakealook.’I busiedmyself ashe took

out his phone and car keysandplacedthemonthedesk.I didn’t comment on theFerrari fob, but Imust admititdidstirmyinterest.Here’s something worth

knowing about rich people,though, should you feelinclinedtohangaroundthem:Theydon’tgiveyouanyof

theirmoney.Theypaynomoreforyour

services than any otherpunter, and the likelihood ofthemleavingyouanythingintheir will is next to zero. Igave up thinking they wereanything other than anotherpatientyearsago,because,asa rule, they were generally

more hassle to treat. Theyexpected their wealth toguaranteetheywouldbeseenfast but lost no sleep overmissing appointments oncetheywerebackonthemend.I jotteddownScottElias’s

details, his past medicalhistory, the particulars of hisinjury, and asked him abouthis job – he owned a largeelectronics manufacturingfirmnearPreston.ThenItoldhim to remove his shirt and

asked him exactly where thepainwas.‘Does this hurt?’ I said,

knowing fullwell it did, as Icouldfeelsomethickeningonthepointofattachmentoftheextensor tendon. I asked justtobreakthesilence.‘Yes,’hereplied,‘howdid

youknowwheretopress?’‘Sixthsense.’‘Do you think you can do

anythingforit?’‘It’s easy to treat,’ I said

casually. ‘Shouldn’t takelong.’‘Whatwillyoudo?’‘I’ll use a complicated

medical procedure,’ I began,and he raised his eyebrowsexpectantly.‘First,Ishallrubit like this. And then likethat.’‘That’sit?’‘That’sit.’‘Okay,’ he said, but he

didn’tseemconvinced.I spent the next few

minutes breaking down thescar tissue that had formedaround the tendon. As far astreatments go, this was apretty mindless task,requiring negligible amountsof concentration. Over theyearsmythumbshadbecomeattuned to the slightestchanges, moving intuitivelyfrom healthy areas todamaged tissue without anyrealconsciousthoughtonmypart.

‘Itoldyourreceptionistwecould go for a drive in theFerrari if he slotted me intoday,’Scottadmitted.‘Wayne?’ I said, amused.

‘Don’tcallhimareceptionist.Hewon’tthankyouforit.Onsecond thoughts,’ I said,feeling mischievous, ‘makesure you call him exactlythat.’‘Youdon’tlikehim?’‘I like him well enough,

but let’s just say he could

makemylifea littleeasier ifhewantedto.’Scott nodded. ‘That stings

quitealot,’hesaid,gesturingtowards his elbow, and Ieasedoffthepressurethroughmyrightthumb.‘Wayne’s really into cars,’

Isaid,‘soyoutwoshouldhititoff.’‘You’renot?’‘No.’ I laughed. ‘As faras

I’mconcerned,they’reallthesame from the inside.

Looking out through thewindscreenyousee the sameas every other driver. Evenwhenacarisbad,it’sgood.Itstill gets you to where youwanttogo.’ScottEliassmiledmildlyat

myassessment.Ofcourse,nothingofwhat

I told him was actually true.I’d love a flash car. Whowouldn’t?ButIwasn’taboutto start gushing over hiswheels. I did have some

dignity.There was a lull in the

conversationandIcouldhearthe faint sound of KenBruce’s Pop Master driftingthough from the radio in thewaitingarea.To be frank, Scott was in

fairly good shape for fifty-four.He obviously took careof himself, did someresistance training, as he stillhadabulktohismusculature,more typical of a guy in his

thirties. His frame –and Irefrain from using the term‘physicality’ here, as it iscurrently so overused, andI’m not even sure it’s aproper word – his frameevoked vigour. Sure, he hadslight inelasticity of the skinandtheforwardprotrusionoftheabdomenthatcomesfrombeing fifty-four. But youwouldlooktwiceifyouwere,say, poolside, pretending toreadapaperback,andhewas

towalkpast.‘I’llputsomestrappingon

this,’ I said, retrieving thefive-inch Fixomull from theshelves. ‘It shouldn’t botheryou. You can get it wet, butdab it dry afterwards. It’sbreathable, so it shouldn’taffecttheskin.’AsIlaidthetapeacrosshis

elbow, I sensed Scottsurveyingme closely. It wasquite unnerving, as usuallypatientswere so interested in

what I was doing (everyonelovesabandage,afterall)thatIwasn’tusedtoit.‘There’s something about

you,’hemurmuredsoftly.Ididn’tlookup.‘You’reveryattractive,’he

said.‘You’re a married man,

Scott.’‘I’m not coming on to

you.’‘Oh,well,thatisarelief.’‘Okay,maybe Iam,abit,’

he said. ‘But not in the wayyouthink.’‘There is more than one

way?’Isaid,andImadeoneloud, final snip with thescissors.‘What is it about you?’ he

askedplayfully.I rolled my eyes and

packedawaythetape.‘Moveyourarmaroundandseeif itfeels okay. Check thebandage isn’t nipping yourskinatall.’

‘Itfeelsfine.’‘Putyourshirtonthen.’Hedidn’tmove.‘Since Friday night,’ he

said,‘eversinceI—’Iheldupmypalm.‘Please

don’t.’‘Hearmeout.’‘No, Scott. This is my

place of work. I have otherpeople to see and,while youseem like a perfectly nicebloke, please don’tcompromise my position

here. It makes thingsincredibly awkward whenmenstartto—’‘You get this a lot?’ he

asked,andsuddenlyashadowfell across his face. I couldseeinstantlyhewasputout.‘Ithappens,’Isaidquietly.Truthbetold,itdidhappen

quite regularly. And notbecause I’m some sort ofgoddess. Far from it. I havethesturdyphysiqueofa ladygolfer, straight dark hair and

an unremarkable face. But itdidhappen.Castyourmindbacktothat

period when every singlewoman had a girl-crush onSarah Jessica Parker. Herstyle, her generalflamboyance, bewitchedwomentheworldover.Atthetime, though, men appearedthoroughlyperplexedby this.They would scratch theirchins, frowning, as if to say,D’you know what? I just

can’tseeitmyself.Well, I have something

akintothat.Iamnotgood-looking.My

body is neither madly sexy,norneatlypackaged,butmendo seem drawn to me, forreasons I can’t fathom.Perhaps it’s because I don’tcare any more. Perhaps,because of Winston, and allthat happened, I exude anattitudeofnotcaringandmenare intrigued by that. Who

knows?‘Your shirt, Scott,’ I

repeated. ‘I have anotherpatientwaiting.’He slipped off the bed.

Pushed an arm through asleeve and began clenchinghis fist repeatedly. ‘Theelbow feels really good,’ hesaid. ‘Remarkable, really,afterjustonesession.’I wiggled my fingers and

said, ‘Magic,’ my tonedeadpan.

He offered a rueful smile.‘I’m sorry,’ he said, holdingmy gaze. ‘I didn’t mean tomake you uncomfortable. Itwas silly of me, and Iapologize.’‘It’sforgotten,’Isaid.I made a few short

treatment notes: crossfrictions, strapping applied,advised him to use an icepack and rest his elbow, andwhile Scott was tidyinghimself up I straightenedmy

desk. I returned the tape andscissors, moved the stoolagainst the wall so I didn’ttrip over it. Then I got onwith laying new couch rollalongthebedbeforedraggingoutmyhairband,rearrangingmy hair into another fastponytail and fixing a smileupon my face, signalling itwastimeforScotttoleave.‘That husband of yours

must have been a fool,’ hesaid as I moved towards the

door.‘That’sonewayofputting

it.’And then he reached out

andtouchedmyhand.Hedid this in amanner to

suggestIshouldbestill foramoment. That he hadsomething important hewantedtosay.Mypulsequickened.‘Haveadrinkwithme,’he

said.‘Justonedrink.’

6

SHALL SPARE YOU the finerdetails of the demise of mymarriage. There’s nothingextraordinary about whatoccurred – just the usualdisintegration of arelationship that comesabout

withbrokenpromises,brokenhearts,brokencrockery.Safe to say, we were not

one of those ex-couples whohadaverygoodco-parentingrelationship. We did not dojoint Christmases or havecivilized get-togethers withouroldfriends.No, we did our break up

t’Northernway.Lots of old-fashioned

screamingateachotherinthestreet,plentyofbackstabbing

and irrationality. Once, wecame across each other on adrunkennightout,andendeduphavingsexinthetoilets.Itwasn’tpretty.Butthenagain,whenisitever?Ibelongedtothebrigadeof

womenwho referred to theirex as ‘that wanker’. Andeveryone knew who I wastalkingabout.We split up twoyears ago

and we were still marriedbecausewecouldn’taffordto

getdivorced.Winstonwassofecklessthattryingtogethimto sign anything – actually,scratchthat;tryingtogethimto do anything – requiredsuch a surge ofinsurmountableenergyonmypartthatI’dgivenuptrying.And yes, of course Petra

was right when she said Ishould have severed all tieswith the man. Got my nameoffeverythingassociatedwithhim, because I would never

get credit, never get on withmy life, while I had himhanging on from a distance,screwing things up.ButwiththehoursIwasworking,andjust with keeping my headabovewater,well, I couldn’tseemtomakeithappen.‘Do the thing you least

want to do first, Roz,’ Petrahad instructed on numerousoccasions. ‘You’ll be farmoreproductivewhenyou’venot got dread hanging over

youallday.’I imagined what would

happen if I told Petra aboutScott’sinvitation.Goodgrief!Herheadwouldtoppleoff.Petrathoughteveryonehad

the same moral compass asher. She was genuinelyastonished when peopleturnedoutnottobewhatshethought. She took it as apersonalinsult.I had refused Scott, of

course.

‘Idon’tdatemarriedmen,’Itoldhim.‘I’mnotaskingforadate,’

he said, ‘just a drink. Surelythere’s no law against that?Wecouldmeetasfriends.’‘Sorry,Scott,butno.’‘CanIaskyouaquestion?’

Hewassmilingnow.‘Goahead.’‘IfIwasn’tmarried,would

youagreetoit?’‘Butyouaremarried.’‘SayIwasn’t.’

‘Butyouare,Scott.’Heleft,amused.Asthough

mystubbornnesswasactuallyquitecharming.Iwonderedifhe made a habit of it,wondered if he was a serialadulterer and enjoyed theconquest. And I probablywould have remainedwondering about him for thedurationofthemorningifthecall about George hadn’tcomein.I was onmy third sciatica

sufferer of the day when Iheard the phone ring atreception. I tried not to bedistracted as this patient wasinabadwayandneededmyfullattention.True sciatica is rare. It

occurs when the soft innerjellyoftheintervertebraldiscis squeezed out through acrack in thedisc’shardoutercoating. This jelly comes torest on the sciatic nerve,sending crippling pain and

often paralysis down the legof the patient.Once the jellyisout, there’snogoingback.It’s like trying to gettoothpaste back into a tube.Surgery is the only cure. So,ifyoufindyourselfbeingtoldby a clinician that he’sputting your discs back intoplace, you can be safe in theknowledgethathe’sanidiot.But, as I said, true sciatica

is rare.Much more commonis for thepatient tostrain the

fascia surrounding the lowervertebrae. I had a neat trickwhereby I got the patient tobendover in frontofmeandthen proceeded to administera hard fingertip massage.Often, within a few minutesthe patient was able to bendfully without me needing tomanipulate the joints, whichcouldbepainful.Iwasmidway through this

procedure when Waynerapped loudly on the door,

informing me there was atelephonecallthatIneededtotake immediately. ‘I’ll havetocallback,’Ishouted,astheold braless hippy before mehad flinched in response toWayne’s interruption andnow her muscles were inspasm. She was stuck inforward flexion and couldn’tmove.‘It’s George’s teacher,’

Wayne replied between histeeth.

Therewas noway I couldleave the patient as shewas:wrinkledbreastshanginglow,like snooker balls in socks,stuck somewhere between aforty-andfifty-degreebend–the most precarious ofpositions. So I toldWayne Iwould return the call withintwominutes.I spent the next ninety

seconds with my thoughtscolliding,my brainRolodex-ing through the possible

injuries George could havesustained to warrant such acall. And being unsuccessfulin alleviating the musclespasminmypatient’sback,Igaveuptemporarily,adjustedthe treatment plinth to itslowest setting – aroundtwelveinchesfromthefloor–andsupportedheraround thewaist as she crawledpiteously on to the plinth,collapsing into the foetalposition, saying, ‘Go on, go

on.Findoutaboutyourson.’Ithankedheranddartedto

the shelves, grabbing a largetowelandlayingitoverhertopreserve her modesty (notthatshecared).ThenIdashedthrough to reception, whereWayne was wearing anexpression that I wassupposed to translate as ‘Nopersonalcallsinworkhours.’The call connected and I

said, ‘Hello?’ as Waynepretended to busy himself,

tearing open a new box oftissues, then dabbing dry hisupperlip.‘Mrs Toovey, it’s Hilary

Slater.’Hilary Slater was the

headmistress. ‘Everythingokay?’Iasked.‘Yesandno,tobehonest,’

and she sighed out heavily.‘There’san issue…an issuewithGeorge.’‘Isheill?’Around six months ago I

began receiving phone callsfrom school on a fairlyregular basis to say thatGeorge was unwell andneeded to be collected. Hehad a range of symptoms:sickness, headaches,dizziness, the occasionallimp. As you would expect,the school treated thesesymptomsseriously.AsdidI,initially.GettingovertoHawkshead

mid-afternoon,takingGeorge

home or else bringing himback to theclinic,didnotgodownwellwitheitherWayneor myself by the third time.Particularlybecauseoneverysingleoneof theseoccasionsthere was absolutely nothingwrong with him. Withintwenty minutes of leavingschool his pallor hadvanished and he would bechatting away happily. Ispoke to George’s teacher.Explained that, for whatever

reason,I thoughtGeorgewastrying it on, and I would trytoget to thebottomof it butplease could they makedoubly sure in the futurebefore assuming he wasunwell.AweeklaterIgotthesame

phone call, only this timeGeorge had been witnessedvomiting so I could hardlyargue.Off I traipsed, leavinga patient with fybromyalgiamid-session in the less-than-

capablehandsofGary.Gary,whose entire treatmentrepertoire consisted ofultrasound followed bywhatever new electricaltherapytherepswerepushingdown our throats and endingwithanicechataboutcorrectposture.Sodallusebasically,ifyouwereinconstantpain.George was fine, needless

tosay.Hiswitnessturnedouttobeoneofhisbuddies,whoI’m sure under interrogation

would have cracked,switching his story to one ofobserving strings of salivarather than vomit. AndGeorge had once againearned himself an afternoonaway from Spanish. Or theWar of the Roses. I forgetwhichwashis least favouriteatthetime.‘George is not ill, Mrs

Toovey,’HilarySlatersaid.‘He’s not? Oh, that’s a

relief,’ I replied, laughing

nervously.Silence.‘Would it be possible for

you to pop in around three-thirty for a meeting?’ sheasked in a way that wasn’treallyaquestion.I hesitated. ‘George is in

after-school club today. I’mafraidIworkuntilfive.Whatisthisaboutexactly?’Wayne was openly staring

atmeatthispointandItriedtostepawayfromthedeskto

prevent him from hearing.The phone cord, however,was too short and so Iremainedwithinearshot.‘I’d rather speak to you in

person,’shesaidcarefully.‘Iunderstandthat,but…’I

paused. How to word thiswithout sounding rude anddismissive? Not possible. ‘Idon’t want to reschedulepatients, Mrs Slater, unlessabsolutelynecessary.’Wayne was making big

swipinggestures.Tellherno,hemouthed.NoWay.‘I wouldn’t ask you to

come in unless it wasabsolutely necessary.’ ‘Thenperhapsyoucouldstayalittlelate?’ I suggested hopefully.‘We could do themeeting atsay, five o’clock. I’m sure Icould get away from hereslightlyearlyif—’She cut me off. ‘Not

possible. Mrs Toovey.Georgehasbeenstealing.’

‘He’sbeenwhat?’‘Stealing.’‘Stealing?’Irepeatedback,

blindsided, and Waynestopped what he was doingand stared at me, allinterested.‘That’sright,’shesaid.‘I…I…assumeyouhave

proof?’ I stammered. ‘Iassume you wouldn’t bethrowing these allegationsaround unless you wereabsolutely sure, because if

youwereto—’‘There is no doubt, Mrs

Toovey.’‘Shit,’ I whispered, and

thenquicklyapologized.‘Okay,’ I told her. ‘Okay,

I’llbeatthemeeting.’

Unless you plan meetings tocoincide with the ferrycrossing times it’softenhardto arrive at appointmentsbang on time. Unusually forme, in this instance, I was

early. I stayed in the caroutside school, electing toavoidtheothermothers,sinceGeorge would not bedeparting alongwith the restofthechildren.Infact,hehadnot been allowed to rejoinany of the afternoon lessonswith his classmates and hadbeenworkingwithateachingassistant on his own in theschool’sITlab.I fiddled with the radio,

trying to get a decent

reception.Dependingonyourposition, Hawkshead couldreceive sketchy transmissionsignals. Lightning, however,had no such trouble gettingthrough and surgesuppressors were essential ifyou wanted to protect yourelectrical items. I’d lost afreezer and two mobilephonessincemovinghere.Eventually, I gave up and

chose to sit in silence. Iobserved the women in the

playgroundingroupsofthreeor four, making lightconversation, the gist ofwhichwaslikelytobe:No,Iam undoubtedly the worstmother in theschoolbecause…Noneof itsaidinearnest,ofcourse.Noneofittruthful.The men were spared thislitany of self-deprecatingnonsense; they were allowedto stand alone, unspeaking,radiating ambivalence. Yougo in acting like that as a

woman,andit’snoted.When the playground had

cleared I made my wayinside. I had decided not todefendGeorge.Iwouldlistento what Hilary Slater had tosay. Tell her I would dealwith it accordingly. Dowhatever was necessary tostop him doing it, and asquicklyaspossible.But when the secretary

showed me into the headteacher’s office and I saw

George sitting on a too-tallchair, his thin legs dangling,his head downcast, I wasovercome.I rushed towards him.

‘George,’ I said, squattingbeside his chair, ‘are you allright?’Henoddedwithoutlooking

up.Seconds later we were

joined by Hilary Slater,George’s class teacher andthe Year Six teacher, who

wore a sickly, cloying scentwhich filled the room,makingmequeasy.‘Mrs Toovey,’ began the

head, ‘thanks for taking thetroubletocomein.’‘It’snotrouble,’Ireplied.‘Perhaps you’d like to sit

there?’ She motioned to anempty chair about two feetaway from George. I lookedat him before straighteningup; tried to get him to meetmy eye, but he wouldn’t. I

evenwentsofarastolifthischin with my finger, but hepulled against me, keepinghisheadlow.I sat, glanced at the three

women in front of me, eachwearing a sympatheticexpressionmeant to inferWedonotjudgehere.‘So,’ began the head, ‘I’m

sureMrTooveybrought youup to speedwith last week’sproblem and, really, whatwe’d like to do now is get

your thoughts and come upwithasuitableplanofactionfor George. A plan that wecanallworktowardsthatwill—’Icutheroff.‘Hangon,’ I said. ‘You’ve

spoken with Winston aboutthis?’Hilary Slater frowned.

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Youhaven’t?’‘This is the first I’ve

heard.’

‘Oh,’ she blustered,uneasily. ‘Oh, that is …unfortunate. I just assumedthatsince…’Herwordsdiedoff and she looked to theotherteachersforinspiration.George’s class teacher

clearedher throat.Shewas akind, pleasant woman in herearly fifties who was veryapproachablebutwhohadtheannoying habit of pretendingnot to recognize you if youshould come across her

outsideschool.‘Wedidtrytocontact Mr Toovey today tobepartofthismeetingbutwewere informed by the manwho answered the call thatMr Toovey was out of thecountryonbusiness.’I cast a glance at George,

who raised his head beforequicklyloweringitagain.Hiskneeswere grass stained andthelaceinhislefttrainerhadrejiggeditselfsothatoneendwas too long, and the other

tooshorttotie.‘That’s regrettable,’ I said,

all of us knowing it wasWinston himself who hadtaken that call. ‘But you sayyou’ve spoken to himalready?’‘Yes,’ said Hilary Slater.

‘Twice. The first timewouldhave been last Friday, andthenagainonTuesdayofthisweekwhenMrTooveycameto collect George fromschool. Things had been

disappearing for some time—’‘What kind of things?’ I

asked.‘Stationery supplies and

whatnot … nothing of anyrealvalue,butthatisn’treallythepoint.Stealingisstealing,MrsToovey.’‘And you told Winston

aboutthis?’‘Yes,’ and she paused,

bitingdownonherlipbeforecontinuing. ‘Mr Toovey

didn’t seem to take it veryseriously. He appeared tothinkthatthiswasnormalforlittle boys. In fact, he jokedthathismotherhadtosewuphis pockets when he wasGeorge’sage.Iapologizethatyou weren’t informed, but Iassumed that Mr Tooveywould relay our conversationtoyou.’I looked at George.

‘Honey,’ I said gently, ‘youshould have told me about

this.’‘I’m afraid we can’t get

George to talk about it,’HilarySlater said. ‘Hewon’tadmit to hiswrongdoing andwe can’t seem to find areason why he’s doing it.And, other than this, as youknow, he performs verywellinschool.Anditgoeswithoutsaying that he is well liked.He is a kind and popularmemberoftheschool.’‘George?’ I prompted, but

hesimplyshrugged.Turningmy attention back

to the head, I said, ‘So,stationerysupplies.Isthatit?’‘I’mafraidnot.Thereason

wewereabletoascertainthatGeorge was the thief wasbecausehewas trying to sellthese supplies to someof theotherchildren.’‘Oh,’Isaid.‘One of the Year Two

children was found with astapleguninhisbackpack.’

Iwinced.‘And sadly, today,’ she

continued, ‘we foundGeorgeinthestaffroomduringlessontime going through thehandbags. He had fortypounds in his pocket, andwe’re almost certain it’s notthefirsttimehe’sdoneit.’I moved from my chair.

‘Christ, George,’ I said,crouching beside him, ‘whatonearthwereyouthinking?’Hestartedtocry.

‘Mrs Toovey, we knowthings have been a littleunsettledathomeforGeorgeforawhilenow.Perhapsyoucould have a chat and see ifthere is anything worryinghim,’saidHilarySlater.‘Are you going to punish

him?’Iasked.She shook her head. ‘We

feel that is not the rightwaytotacklethis.Obviously,ifithappensagain,thenwewouldbe forced to take action. But

we’re confident George nowunderstands the seriousnessof this and I’m sure there’llbe no more incidents. Willthere,George?’He lifted his tear-stained

face.‘No,’hewhispered.Moments later, when we

were sitting in the corridor, Isaid, ‘Look at me, George.Whatisgoingon?’‘Nothing.’‘George,’Irepeated.Hewipedhiseyes.‘Idon’t

know.’‘Ofcourseyouknow.Why

didyoutakethemoney?’Andhestartedtosob.Big,

wracking sobs, shudderingthroughhissmallframe.‘Because you haven’t got

anymoney,’hewept.‘I’vegotsomemoney.I’ve

gotenoughmoney,’Isaid.Hetookabreath.‘And I wanted to buy

Cesar,’ he said. ‘I wanted tobuyourdogback.’

7

IT WAS THE day after Scott’sfirstappointment.Andhewasback for another. I hadn’tasked how he persuadedWayne to reassign my thirdpatient of the day, because Iwasfastbecomingawarethat

Scott did not operate withinthe usual parameters. Mymood was low after themeetingatschoolandthefullweight of what my financialsituationwasdoingtoGeorgewas uponme. I didn’t reallyfeel like engaging in anotherdance with words, but Scottwas insistent that I wouldwant to hear what he had tosay so, after the treatmentsession, I allowed him thecourtesy.

‘Iknowyou’reinfinancialtrouble,’ Scott began when Itold him to go on. Yes, Iwould hear him out, becausewhen you’re eighteenthousandpounds indebt,andyour son is stealing fromschool – because evenGeorgehadrealizedhowbadthingshadgot–you’remorewilling to listen to businesspropositions(eventhoughI’dhadmyfairshareofpyramidsellersovertheyears.patients

who tried togetme involvedin selling everything fromalgae food supplements towaterpurifiers).‘What I’m about to say

mightshock,’Scottsaid.‘I used to work in the

NHS,’ I said. ‘I don’t shockthateasily.’‘I’dliketopaytospendthe

nightwithyou,’hesaid.Iblinked.ThenIlaughed.‘I thought you had

somethingserioustodiscuss,’

Isaid.‘IsthistodowiththatthingIsaidaboutprostitutionon Friday? I didn’t reallymeanit.I’dhadalottodrinkanditwasjustanobservation—’‘I’mtotallyserious.’‘No you’re not,’ I replied,

but I could see by hisexpressionthathewas.‘Shit,’Iwhispered.I’d been asked some

strange thingsover theyears.Only last week one of my

regulars – a diabetic drinkerwith gout in both feet –inquired if perineal massagecould help him maintain anerection.TowhichIrepliedIcouldn’t say for sure that itwouldn’t, but I didn’t knowof a person who providedsuch a service locally,stopping theexchangebeforeit had a chance to go anyfurther.‘Look,’ Scott said, ‘this

wouldbenefitbothofus.You

refused my offer of a drink—’‘Becauseyou’remarried.’‘AndIwouldliketospend

some time with you – yourhumour, your candour, thenatural way you have aboutyou makes me want to …well,let’ssayit’srefreshing.’Hepaused,waiting formy

reaction.‘And,’ he went on, ‘as I

said earlier, I gather fromwhat Petra said at the party

thatyoucould reallydowiththe money. Though,obviously, Roz,’ he said, histone suddenly turning moreserious, ‘I am puttingmyselfon the linehere.So ifyou’rereally not interested, I’dratheryoujustsaidsostraightaway.Idon’twanttotakethechance of this conversationbecoming commonknowledge.’‘Iwon’tsayanythingabout

it,’ I said quietly, and he

nodded.I said this not because I

had any intention of goingalong with his outrageoussuggestionbutbecauseofhiswife, Nadine. Fromexperience,Icansaythat thegrief which settles aroundyour heart after you’ve beencheated on never reallyleaves. Certainly, with time,theraw,raggededgesbecomesmoothed, but it alwaysremains,andIhopedtospare

Nadinethat.‘Will you think about it?’

Scottasked.‘No need. The answer is

no.’‘But you haven’t even

asked how much I waspreparedtopay.’‘I don’t need to ask. I’m

notforsale,Scott.’‘Everyone’sforsale.’‘Now you really are

sounding like a dickhead,’ Isaid.

He smiled in spite ofhimselfand liftedbothhandsin a gesture to indicate heknewwhenhewasbeaten.I probably should have

been angrier than I actuallywas. Imean,payingme?Forsex?Jesus.Then I caught myself,

because wasn’t this exactlythe kind of thing I hadsuggestedonFridaynight?Petra’s appalled face

flashedintomymind.

‘Ifyouchangeyourmind,’he said, ‘the offer stillstands.’‘Iwon’t.’

The morning passed byquicklyinahazeofsweatingbodies, endless talk of theheat wave. Lots of Well, ifthis is global warming, I’mall for it type ofconversations.By lunchtime I’d all but

putScott’sproposalfrommy

mind. But I was left with arather odd sensation– as if Iwere slightly soiled and inneedofashower.I headed to the staff

bathroom, where I filled thebasin with cold water,removed my tunic and gavemy upper body a goodsoaping. I was reluctant todry off with the hand towel,as it was also used by bothWayne and Gary used, but Idecided the chances of them

washing their hands aftertaking a leak were prettyslim,soIwentahead.I smartened up my hair,

securing it with some oldKirbygripsthatwerelyingatthe bottom of my handbag.Stuck to the lining was aHall’scherrySootherthathadmanagedtounwrapitself.I examined my reflection

and wondered if I hadencouraged what hadoccurredearlier.Granted,my

candidnessonFridayeveninghad perhaps encouragedScott’s behaviour somewhat,but I couldn’t rememberactually suggesting that Ishould become a prostitute.Mygeneral ideawas that forsome men there is clearly aneed – always was, alwayswillbe–so itmightbea lotless fuss if they simplysatisfied this need, withoutthe call for affairs, and thesubsequent break-up of

marriagesandfamilies.I could now see that what

seemed a relativelystraightforward, sensible ideatomecouldbeperceivedverydifferently. Petra hadresponded like she’d had aslaptotheface.Herhusband,Vince, as though it were awhistle he simply could nothear.AndScott–well,Scotthad taken the idea and runwithittoawholeotherlevel.Orperhapsnot.

Perhaps Scott had been onthe lookout for a while anddecided I seemed reasonablygame,sowhatdidhehavetolose?The more I thought about

it, the more I realized I hadno idea what went throughotherpeople’sheads.I left the bathroom,

planningtograbacoffee–tohead off the afternoon slump– and to eat a banana in thesunshine. There was a

wooden bench outside thefront entrance to the clinic,which I avoided. This wasbecause old people tended toarrive stupendously early forappointments andwould takerefuge on this bench. Beforeyou knew it you’d findyourself ensconced in thekindofsmalltalkyou’dbeenhavingallmorning:Theheat,immigration, the frivolousspending habits of thedaughter-in-law, the

overcooked pork at thewedding reception theyattended the previousweekend.So I grabbedmy rucksack

with the idea of headingaround the back of the clinictoeat lunchaloneonadustystep,verymuchoutofsight.Wayne,however,hadother

plans.‘A quick word, Roz,’ he

saidasIpassedreception.Hedid not lift his head. He had

hiseyesfixedonthemonitorinfrontofhim.‘Iwasjustgoingto—’‘Won’ttakeaminute,’and

hemetmyeyes,givingmeasympathetickindofsmile.‘There’s an issue with the

takings,’hebegan.Wayne Geddes was a

colourlessman.His skin, hishair, his eyelashes and evenhis gums were a peculiarshade of nothing. He waswhat I would describe as

instantlyforgettable.Apart from, that is, his

propensitytosweat.If you’ve ever left a lump

ofParmesancheeseoutofthefridgeforatimeyou’llnoticea series of fatty dropletsdevelop along the rind. ThatisWayne’sforehead.Doesn’tmatter what the weather’sdoing. You had to feel sorryfortheguy.‘Anissue?’Isaid.He frowned at the

computer screen as thoughtrying to make sense ofsomething.Thenhelookedatme. ‘The takings don’talways match theappointment schedule,’ hesaid. ‘There are a fewinconsistencies.’‘And what has that got to

dowithme?’Hehesitated.‘Spititout,Wayne.’Iglancedtowardstheopen

door.We have so few sunny

days throughout the year thepull was irresistible. I stoodregarding Wayne, twitchinglikeagreyhoundinthetraps,primedandreadyforrelease.‘Nothing you want to tell

me?’heaskedcarefully.‘No.’‘You’re quite sure?

Because I could help you,Roz. You only need toconfide in me and I promiseI’llhelpyou.’I held his gaze intently. ‘I

really don’t know whatyou’re talking about. Now, Ineedto—’‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Okay.’

Andheregardedmesadly,asthough I was letting himdown. ‘There is somethingelse.You’ll have to cut yourlunch break short today,’Wayne said. ‘I’ve bookedHenryPeachey tocome inat1p.m.’‘Who?’Iasked.‘The insurance agent? The

one you were supposed tocall,anddidn’t?’Oh.Thatguy.‘Icouldn’tletitrunonany

longer, Roz,’ he said. ‘Youneed this assessment. We’renotfullyinsuredwithoutit.’‘So you keep saying. But

did you have to organize itfor today?’ I asked, glancingatmywatch. That only gavemefifteenminutes.‘Henry only works

TuesdaysandWednesdays.’

‘That’sniceforhim.’Wayne sighed heavily.

‘Justdoit,okay?Helpmetohelp you. Besides, it won’ttakethatlong.’

8

‘IF I COULD begin by takingyour date of birth,’ theinsuranceagentsaid.‘Twenty-fifth of

December,Nineteenseventy-one.’He raised his head.

‘ChristmasDay.’Inodded.Now people would

generally say one of twothings:‘Doyouget twicethepresents?’or‘I’vealwaysfeltsorry for those whosebirthdayfallsonthatday.’He actually said neither.

‘I’m not really a bigChristmas person,’ he said,andsmiled.His smile was warm and

sexyat thesame time.And I

was completely thrown offcentre.We were in the

nutritionist’s room. Therewasn’t enough work for afull-time nutritionist at theclinic, so Helen Miller splithertimebetweenfourorfiveother set-ups around theNorth-west. This meant thatherdeskwas always clearofthe general detritus whichaccumulated onmine, as shemoved her files and whatnot

aroundwithher.Ihadclosedthe blinds as the heat wasfiercenowonthewest-facingwindows, the sun havingarced its way overhead, andthefanwasonfullblast.My cheeks were hot and

red.HenryPeacheyworeapolo

shirt that was faded aroundthe collar, along with olive-coloured canvas trousers thatwould be classed as jeans incertain establishments,

therefore denying entry. Icouldsmellhisaftershave.‘Fullname?’heasked.‘Rosalind Veronica

Toovey.’Hetypedfast.Hisfacewas

relaxed, he was totally atease, and I watched himunashamedly. The only menwe ever got at the clinic(other than patients) weremedical reps, and they werelike androids. They wouldmoveamongstus, trickingus

with their good skin, erectpostures, spotless shirts andtheirkeen, interestedeyes.Inthe firstmoments ofmeetingthem, you would rarely feelmore engaged,more attuned,to another person. And then,suddenly, and withoutwarning, their façade wouldfall.The rep would reach into

hisbriefcase, the spellwouldbe broken and you wouldrealize:Ah,asalesman.

Thesharpbanterofearliercannot be continued as he isonlyable to sustain it forhisopening pitch. At this pointyou might find yourselfthrowinginajoketoeasethediscomfort.Butyouwouldbemetwithadead,vacantstare.A stare that said: Does notcompute.Henry Peachey was not

like that at all.Andwhen helookedupandsaid,‘Placeofbirth?’ his eyes locked on

mine. Itwasas ifhe’daskedmetoundress.I was not imagining it,

there was an immediatemutual attraction, and Istammered out, ‘Kendal.’Following it with ‘How is ityou don’t like Christmas?Areyouanti-religion?’‘I’mnot againstChristmas

as such,’ he replied, as hetyped. ‘It’s more that weseemtohavereachedapointin society whereby we have

to spend inordinate amountsofmoneyjusttoshowthatweloveeachother.Isupposeit’smore that I don’t like beingtold what to do by theadvertising industry.’ Helookedup.‘Qualifications?’‘Youwantallofthem?’‘Themostrecentisfine.’‘ABScinPhysiotherapy.I

startedanMScbut,youknowhowit is, lifegotintheway.Are you anti-birthdays thenaswell?’

There was mischief in hiseyes, and he paused beforespeaking. I had to lookawayto catch my breath. ‘I got amessage from Apple lastweek,’ he said, ‘saying Ishould treat my dad to aniPad for Father’s Day. ThesentimentbeingthatifIreallyloved him, etc., etc., that Iwouldforkoutforone.Threehundred pounds on Father’sDay?Crazy.Doyousmoke?’I hesitated. Then said,

‘No,’firmly.‘Never?’‘Okay, sometimes when

I’m drunk,’ I admittedashamedly. ‘If I get a bitboredIdogooffinsearchofasmoke.Notoften,though.’‘Thatcounts.’‘Really?’Henoddedgrimly. ‘We’ve

had a couple of cases thisyear…thefamiliesofpeoplewho’vebeen incaraccidentshave not been eligible for a

payoutupontheirdeaths.Thepolicy holders claimed to benon-smokers, but becausethere was evidence ofnicotineinthehairsamples–well,’hesaid,andshrugged.‘That’sabitharsh.’‘Theworldwelivein,I’m

afraid. Occasional smoker,’hemurmured,ashetyped.‘Whatisthisforexactly?’I

asked. Wayne had told me,butIhadn’tlistenedproperly.Practice managers were

always trying to get us to doirrelevant stuff; MagdalenatheAustrianphysioclaimeditwas simply to justify theirexistence. If I did half thethingsWayne asked ofme, Iwouldseefourlesspatientsaday.‘It’s to bring the public-

liability insurance paymentsdown.’‘Butwe’reallinsuredupto

a hundred million with theCharteredSociety.’

‘That’s your individualinsurance,’ he explained.‘Thecompany thatowns thischain is also accountable ifthere’s an accident with apatient. By doing these extrain-depth assessments of theirstaff, they are able to reducetheir contributions. It’s a bitlike doing an advancedmotoring course – you’reconsidered a safer driver oncompletion, so your carinsuranceisreduced.’

Inodded.‘I forgot to ask, are you

married,MissToovey?’‘Separated,’Iansweredtoo

quickly.‘Andit’sRoz.’Hehadsuchbeautifulskin.

And a mouth so soft thatwhen I gazed at it I got asurge of longing all the waydowntomy—‘Okay,Roz,’ he said, ‘any

operations, medicalprocedures?’‘I had a car crash four

years ago and suffered apneumothorax.’‘Pneumo—?’‘Apologies, I thought you

were medical. A collapsedlung,’Isaid.‘Ibrokemyarm,too, but I don’t think that’srelevant.’‘Any operations, any

surgeries performed outsidetheUK?’heasked.Ipaused.He raised his head and

lookedatmewithconcern.

When I didn’t continue hewinced a little before saying,‘I’m sorry about this, but Ineed you to be fullytransparent here. It’simportant.’I exhaled. I didn’t want

him to know. Up until thispointI’dbeenunderakindoflovely,hazy,dream-likespellwhere the real world waslocked firmly behind theclinicdoor.Now itwasas if that spell

wasbroken.‘I lost a baby whilst on

holiday in Gran Canaria,’ Isaid.‘Iwastwenty-sixweekspregnant–quitefaralong.’Hetiltedhisheadandgave

asadsmile.‘Sosorrytohearthat,’hesaidsoftly.‘Itjustwasn’tmeanttobe,’

Ireplied.What Ididn’t saywas that

thiswas thebeginningof theend forme andWinston.Hehad been screwing around. I

was unaware of this at thatpoint,but Iknewweweren’twhatweoncewere.Ifailedtoseewhatwasrightinfrontofmy eyes and, somewhatdelusionally, thought a newbaby would bring us closertogetheragain.Silly, really, but in my

defence I’m sure I was notthe first woman to think aman would change his waysoncehehadanewbabyinhisarms. Ifwomenwere to stop

kidding themselves with thatparticular fantasy, I reckonthehumanracewoulddieoutprettyquickly.Sadly for us, I started

spotting blood when Iboarded the plane atManchester, and by the timewearrivedinGranCanariaitwas clear something waswrong. We went straight tothehospital,whereuponIwashooked up to a saline drip,examined briefly and told I

would be scanned first thingin the morning. They toldWinstonhecoulddonothingand,sinceIwouldbesharinga roomwith anotherwoman,hewasnotwelcometostay.At around ten that night

therewasachangeofplan.Agruff obstetrician performedthe scan, notifyingme in herlimited English, ‘There isnothing.’When I asked what she

meant exactly, she said, ‘No

morebaby,’and theassistingnurse informed me that Iwouldbeinducedatseveninthemorning,andwouldneedto go through normal labour.Iwouldhavenothingtoshowat the end of it. Halfconsumed with grief, halfterrified, I begged for aCaesarean.ButIwasdenied.Ichangedafterthat.Ithink

I just gave up trying. I hadneitherthegritnortheenergyanddeterminationrequiredto

run our lives effectively and,ultimately, everything beganto unravel. Winston sleptaround more. I didn’t attendto our financial problems.Andwelostitall.‘I’ll need to take some

blood from you,’ HenryPeachey said now,apologetically.‘Abloodtest?Why?’‘Anything surgical

performed outside the UKcarries an increased AIDS

risk.DidyouhaveaD&C?’Ishookmyhead.‘Labour.’‘That’s still classed as

surgical, I’m afraid. The testis a thumb pinprick. I’ll justneed enough for …’ Hisvoice trailed off as herummaged around in hisbriefcase, looking for, ittranspired, two polytheneenvelopes, each containing asmallplasticvial.‘Herewego,’hesaid.He set about cleaning my

thumbwithanalcoholwipe.Iwas conscious of the drop inmood and Henry’s carefulway with me. The earlierplayfulness between us wasgone.‘Gives you quite a

privileged insight into otherpeople’s lives, an assessmentsuchasthis,’Icommentedashepuncturedmyskin.He squeezed my thumb

andpositionedthevial.‘As does your job,’ he

replied, screwing on the cap.‘Youmustseeallsorts.’Hewasn’twrong.Icarried

more secrets from the folkaround here than I cared toremember. It’s an oddarrangement, the relationshipbetweenpatientandtherapist.Not really replicatedanywhereelse.Iusedtothinkit was the vulnerableconditionof thepatient– thefactthattheywereinpain,ina state of undress – which

caused them, perhaps from anervous response, to divulge.But I’ve since changed mymind. I don’t think mypatients ever really feelvulnerable.Iworkhardtoputthem at ease, to presentmyself as an affable, capablepersonwhocanbe trusted togetonwiththematterinhandwith the minimum of fuss.So, no, it wasn’t that. It wasthe closed door. Thesoundproof room. Something

about knowing you wouldn’tbeoverheard,abouttalkingtoa person who is bound bypatient confidentiality,liberates people to unburdenthemselvesinawaytheycando in no other area of theirlife. Except, perhaps, with apriest. But who confides inclergyanymore?When Henry Peachey was

finished he passedme awadofcottonwoolandtoldmetoput pressure on the puncture

hole.Hewasveryefficient.‘Doyoucoverthewholeof

the north of England?’ Iasked,making small talk. ‘Isthat why you’re onlyavailable around here onTuesdaysandWednesdays?’‘No. Ionlywork twodays

aweek.’I must have gaped at him

thenbecausehe said, ‘Is thatodd?’I raised my eyebrows.

‘Lucky, more like. How on

earthdoyoumanagethat?Doyou have a trust fund orsomething?’He laughed, the light

returningtohiseyes.‘No.’‘So how is that even

possible?’‘Itjustrequiresalittleself-

control, and I suppose thedeterminationnot tobuy intothe common belief that hardworkisagoodthinginitself.That we should all beworking our arses off just so

wecanspendmoremoneyoncrapwedon’tneed.’‘Ah,’ I said, smirking,

‘you’reoneofthosepeople.’He stopped and regarded

mequizzically. ‘Oneofwhatpeople?’‘You know – basket

weavers, self-sufficiency. Doyou have spider plantsgrowing out of old workbootsonyourdoorstep?’‘No.’Helaughed.‘Iusedtogooutwithaguy

like that. He spent so muchtime building wind turbinesfrom bits of recycled tat,tryingtoliveofftheland,thathedidn’thaveapennytohisname.Itwouldhavebeenfarquicker and a lot less workjust togoout andget a part-timejob.’He looked at me. Arched

an eyebrow.Waited for it todawn.‘Whichisexactlywhatyou

havedone,’ I conceded. ‘Oh,

okay,goodforyou.Thoseofus with responsibilities havetoearnaproperliving.’‘Nice rant,’ he said,

passingmeaplaster.‘Thanks.’Amomentpassed.‘Did you go on to have

children…Imean,afterwhathappened to you abroad?’ heaskedgently.‘Ialreadyhadonechild.A

son. But therewere nomorebecause we couldn’t afford

it.’Andwhenhefrowned,asthough questioning mystatement, I added, ‘Wedidn’t have travel insurance.My ex said he’d arranged itforthetrip,buthehadn’t.Wehad to pay for my stay inhospitalbycreditcard,whichI’m still paying off, alongwith a lot of other stuff.Anyway,’ I said, morebrightly, trying tochange thetone again, ‘in just a fewshort minutes you know

everything there is to knowaboutme.’Heheldmygaze,andthere

it was again. The jolt ofmutualattraction.‘Not everything, I hope,’

Henrysaid.

9

THAT EVENING GEORGE and Ipicnickedinthebackgarden.I grabbed a few bits andpiecesfromthevillage:apotof reduced-priced hummus,some locally producedpastrami (with a same-day

expiration date), a cucumberandabaguettethatwasdownto ten pence because it hadtaken a bit of a bashing intransit.From the outside looking

in, you might think thingswereprettymuchperfect.Theheat of the day was on thewane. George was happy,pushing slices of pepperedbeef into his mouth, hisschool polo shirt coveredwith a combination of grass

stains, spots of pollen and aformlessyellowmarkaroundthe collar that I would laterrealizewassuncream.I could hear Celia and

Dennis over the fencepottering around in theirgarden, Dennis softlywhistling the theme to TheWaltons, Celia keeping up alow-level steady chatter,punctuating it occasionallywith ‘Dennis, start listeningtomenow,’whensheneeded

toimpartsomethingcrucial.Theholidaycottageon the

other side was home for theweek to a quiet, bookish,newly wedded couple fromBillericay. They were thetype of people who woreperpetual looks of apologysimplyforbeingthere,which,I have to say, made a nicechange from the boisterous,unrestrained groups of late.Last week, I had politelyaskedagentlemaninaLeeds

United shirt if he wouldn’tmind repositioning thebarbecue a little further fromthe house so that thecrosswind didn’t carry thethick smoke right across ourpatio, andhe’d respondedbycallingmeafuckinglesbian.I watched George chew,

the straw-coloured lightbouncing off his hair, themissing patch above his earless apparent now. I reallyshould neaten that up, I

thought, though I knew Iwouldn’t. Petra said Iwas inthe habit of holding on toGeorge’s babyish traits,which I thought of asendearing rather thanbabyish.SheoftenchidedmeifIfailedtocorrectGeorge’sspeech,butIlikeditwhenhesaid ‘brang’ instead of‘brought’, when he told mehe’d ‘writted’ me a letter,whenheconfusedhisPsandBs, asking me to pass the

PBA glue. These things, Iknew,would be gone all toosoon,andIwasinnohurrytoseethebackofthem.I pulled a daisy from the

grassandpassedittoGeorge.Herolledhiseyes.Toogirly.‘Whatdidyoudoatschool

today?’‘Science,’hesaid.‘Did you do an

experiment?’‘We put white blocks into

different bottles to see what

wouldhappen.’‘Differentbottlesofwhat?’He shrugged. ‘Milk and

Cokeandstuff.’I remembered this

experiment. It was used todemonstrate the rates ofdecayonteeth,theideabeingkids would make wisechoices when deciding whatto drink. The thrust of itappeared to be lost onGeorge.George finished chewing.

Hesaid,‘FinnGibson-Morrissayswewouldberich,too,ifwe had a restaurant, like hisparents.’‘Didhe?’Irepliedflatly.‘He gets tons and tons of

stuff,Mum.Hisparentshave,like,somuchmoneythatthey—’‘His parents don’t own

theirownhome.Theyrent.’He frowned. ‘Don’t we

rent?’‘Yes, but we’re not going

aroundmakinglittlekidsfeelshitty because they don’thavemuchmoney.’I’d heard a lot about Finn

Gibson-Morris.NotjustfromGeorge but from his littlebuddiesatschool.Thislineofconversation cropped upevery week or so and,usually, Ihad thegoodgracetoholdmytongue.Nottoday.‘You finished?’ I asked

George, motioning to hisplate,andhenodded.‘Goand

fetchyourselfanapplethen.’I watched him go, his

skinny, tanned legs, hyper-extended at the back of theknee. He’d inherited hishypermobility fromWinston.He could pull his thumb allthe way back so that ittouched his forearm – likeWinston.I’veneverknownamanso

agile, so flexible, asWinstonToovey.Itwasthereasonwemet. His left patella would

frequently end up around theoutside of his leg, and Iwould stabilize it so as toallow him to walk again. Imanaged two treatmentsessions before I acquiescedand agreed to a date,disregarding the CharteredSociety’s directive advisingagainst physio/patientrelationships.Turnedouttheywereright

about that, but not for thereasonstheylisted.

I watched George emergefromthebackdoor,bitehardintotheappleandwince.Oneof his milk teeth wasstubbornlyhangingontillthedeath and he would forgetabout it until it pained him.‘Youokay?’Icalledout,andhe took the fruit from hismouth, adjusted the toothwith his finger, pushing itbackintothegum.‘Yep,’ he said, as his

attention was caught by a

bold lamb that had strayedfrom the flock, closing in onthe stone wall that borderedthe back of the garden.Something about the wayGeorge gazed at it – kind ofsadandreflective–madethebreath catch in my throat.Perhaps he knew that thelambwouldsoonberemoved,ready for slaughter, onaccount of being born thewronggender.Georgemadeaflicking action, as if shaking

the thought from his head,andaskedifhecouldgonextdoortoseeFoxy.‘Don’t get under Celia’s

feet,’Iwarned.Whenhe’dgone therewas

aknockat thefrontdoorandthe postman stood there,holding out a letter. ‘SpecialDelivery,” he said, “I need asignature.’I took the letter, thanked

him, andwent inside. Sittingon thebackstep, Iopened it,

knowingwhatitwas.An eviction notice. I had

twoweeks.Iwas threemonths behind

on the rent and I hadabsolutely no way of payingit.In theend,all ithad taken

was one unexpected bill andmy weekly budget had beenblown. My car had neededtwo new tyres and a timingbelt. The cost was close toeight hundred pounds. My

dadhadbeennaggingmefornear to a year to change thetiming belt, saying it waslong overdue, that if I didn’thave it done it would breakandthecarwouldbewreckedintheprocess.Eventually,I’dgone through with it,knowingIdidn’thaveenoughto pay the rent but, withoutthe car, I couldn’t get towork. Couple that with thewinter heating bill that I’dbeendelayedinpaying,andI

wasinaspiralofdebt.And now I was in real

trouble.Andnot the paltry kind of

financial trouble that can bepassed off with more creditcards, letters of regret andapology, with promises ofminimalmonthlypayments.I was about to lose the

house.I was about to lose

everything.

10

‘CANWETALK?’‘I hoped you’d call,’ he

said.‘Ihoped…’ThenScottElias paused, giving a smallexhalationthatsoundedtomeverymuchlikerelief.‘Ireallydidn’t expect to hear from

yousosoon,’hesaid.‘Listen,’ I began. ‘I’d

rather not do this over thephonebut, just soyouknow,my circumstances havechanged. I would like toreconsider your offer, if it’sstillavailable.’‘Okay,’ he said slowly.

‘Perhaps we should meet. Imean, to discuss it further. Iexpect there are some thingsyou’dliketoclarify.’I tried to keep my tone

businesslike as I issued theinstructions I’d decided uponearlier, but there was anunmistakable tremor in myvoice. ‘I’ve got a forty-five-minute lunch break,’ I said.‘Come to the clinic. It’ll besafer thanmeeting out in theopen. We won’t arousesuspicion ifweactas thoughI’veslottedyouinasanextrapatient.’‘Thatmakessense.’‘We’ll be able to talk

undisturbed.’‘What time should I be

there?’‘One-fifteen,’ I said. ‘Try

nottobelate.’‘I’mneverlate.’WhenIcutthecallIplaced

the phone down on the deskwithatremblinghand.ThenIwaited a moment beforecalling in the next patient toobservemyself in this act oftreachery.Iroseandfacedthemirror. I had the hardened,

pinched look of a womanwho, at first, you wouldpresume to be vexed but, oncloser inspection, wouldrealizewasterrified.Throughout the night I’d

wrestled with the idea ofScott’sproposal.WouldI?Wouldn’tI?CouldI?HowcouldI?I came to no clear

conclusions.WhenIletmythoughtsrun

free, it seemed almost easy.

Sleep with a man and mymonetary problems could besolved.I kept trying to convince

myself I’d had to do worsethings – my physiotherapytraining,forone.Assisting stroke victims to

the bathroom, some of themover six feet tall, heavy andwith one side paralysed so itcould feel like you weretrying to lift a cadaver,required more in the way of

acting, more joviality in theface of dismayed horror thanwould a night spent withScottElias.WhenI thoughtabout it in

those terms, Ihadnodoubt Icoulddoit.My doubts came when I

thought about the risksinvolved: the risk of beingfound out; the risk ofdestroyingNadine–hiswife,my sister’s friend. Not tomention the fact that I had

madeapromisetomyselfthatI would never, ever go nearanother woman’s husband.Not after the devastationwreakedbyWinston.WhenIthought about all that, I wasabsolutelycertain Icouldnotdoit.Butnowthecallwasmade.And the remainder of the

morning was spent onautopilot. If youaskedme torecall one conversation, onepatient’s viewpoint on the

news of the day, I wouldn’tbe able to. I avoidedWayne.At one point he knocked onmy door when I was inbetweenpatients,bringingmea coffee. He placed the cuponmydeskandaskedifIwasokay. Asked if there wasanythinghecoulddotohelp,as I seemed unsettled aboutsomething this morning andhewasalwaysthereforme.Iknewthat,right?Itwassweetof him, but I told him I was

fine, told him I appreciatedhisconcern.WhetherIdupedhimornot,Icouldn’tsay,buthe left without speaking,except to informme thatmynext patient had nippedoutside tomake a phone callto his daughter’s school,shouldIbewonderingwherehewas.By the time the clock

edged close to one-fifteen Iwas soaked with sweat andprobablynot in thebest state

to receive the man who wason his way over to discusshaving sex with me formoney.He knocked on the door

firmly,avoidingthereceptionarea, and said, ‘Thanks forfitting me in at the lastminute’asIopenedthedoor.I didn’t reply. I should

have, if only for Wayne’sbenefit,butmythroatwassoparched the most I could dowas nod and swallow,

ushering him inwith awaveofthehand.As he got himself seated I

seemed to find my resolveand gathered myself. ‘Howare you?’ I asked him. ‘Areyouwell?’He lifted his elbow a few

inches, bending andstraightening his armrepeatedly. ‘It’s so muchbetter,’ he said. ‘You reallydoworkmiracles.’Ibrushed it off. ‘It’snot a

difficultthingtotreat.I’mnotso successful with frozenshouldersandgout; theytakea lot longer. It just dependson the problem, really,because if you’ve gotsomeonewhois—’Istopped.‘I’mbabbling,’Isaid.‘You’re nervous,’ he

replied. ‘So am I. Doesn’treallymatterifwebabbleforabit,doesit?’‘Isupposenot.’

‘Frozen shoulders … youweresaying?’I shook my head. ‘It’s

irrelevant.’Consciousofhowmuch timewe had available,and indeed, what we had tocover, I started again. ‘Let’sstick with what you camehere to talk about, becauseI’mnotcertainofanyof thisyet. I’ve not decided that Idefinitelywant togo throughwith it. It’s just that I findmyself in a bit of a mess

financially, and so—’ Ilooked up. Scott waswatching me intently, butwithanopenface,nohintofjudgement.‘Actually, it’smore than a

bit of a mess,’ I admitted,droppingmygaze.‘I’mbeingevicted from my home.That’s why I’m doing this,that’swhyIagreedtomeet.’‘You don’t have to

explain,’hesaid.‘IthinkIneedtoexplain.I

don’twantyoutothink—’‘I don’t think anything. I

knowwhoyouare.Ilikewhoyou are. And I approachedyou, remember. I’m notconcerned with what youthink of my motivation, andyou shouldn’t be concernedwith what I think of yours.Thisisabusinesstransaction,that’sall.’‘A business transaction,’ I

repeated.‘That’s how you should

thinkofit.’Iraisedmyeyebrows.‘It might make it easier if

you think of it in thoseterms,’hesaidgently.‘Okay, but what is your

motivation for doing this …with me?’ I asked. ‘Becauseit isn’t exactly what you’dclass as an ordinary businessproposition.’‘I like you and I want to

help. If you do decide youwant to pursue this further,

thenperhapswe’ll talkaboutthat,butatanother time.Justas I’m not asking you toaccount for your reasons, Iwouldaskthatyouextendmethesamecourtesy.’I nodded. ‘Seems

reasonable.’‘Perhaps, rather than the

whys,we should think aboutdiscussing how you want togoaboutthis.Andthereisofcourse the matter of yourfee.’

I gave a nervous laugh.‘Myfee,’Iechoedback.Naturally, I’d thought

about this, thought about itover and over, totting upnumbers in my head,apportioning out money tomy landlord, the credit cardcompany, the council taxarrears.Butnow,sayingitoutloud,seemedalmostcomical,andallatoncecrassandugly,to the extent that I began tolosemynerve.

‘What would you expectmetodo?’Iaskedquietly.‘Nothing weird, if that’s

what’sworryingyou.’I let go of the air held

insidemylungs.‘That’sarelief.’He spread his hands wide

in agesture that indicatedhecame in peace, he meant noharm. ‘It’s simple,’ he said,‘there is nothingweird aboutme.AllIwantisanightwithyou.’

‘Thewholenight?’‘Wouldthatbeaproblem?’‘Er,no,’Istammered.‘No,

I don’t think so. Obviously,there’s George to consider…’‘Would there be a way to

arrange some cover, a sitterperhaps?’‘Ithinkso.’He nodded before moving

on. ‘The other thing tomentionatthisstageisthatofcourse this arrangement

would require completediscretion,’ and he paused.Withhis eyes fixedonmine,gaugingmyreaction,hesaid,‘I have as much to lose asyou, Roz, probably more, infact. It’s absolutelyimperative that this remainsbetweenus.Onlyus.’Affronted,Ireplied,‘Well,

Icertainlywasn’tplanningontellinganyone.’Hesmiled.‘Sorry,’hesaid,

‘sorry. I assumed it went

without saying but, I don’tknow, I suppose I had to besure.Apologies.’‘What exactly would you

want me to do?’ I askedagain, my tone firmer thistime.Moresureofmyself.When I decided on this

meeting earlier, this was theone thing I had to beinflexible on, or else Icouldn’t go through with it.Any red flags at this stageand I would back out. I

couldn’tchanceit.Iexpectedacertainamountofkinkiness,otherwise why not just sleepwithyourwife?ButIneededto know the boundaries, theclear boundaries, beforeentering into this businesstransaction–as Scott referredtoit.‘Expect?’hesaid.‘Nothing

that you’re not comfortablewith. I’m not expecting youturn into something you’renot, that’s not what this is

about.’I raised my eyebrows and

waitedforhimtogoon.‘I certainly don’t expect

you to be some sort ofdominatrix,’ he said, shakinghishead. ‘I don’t knowwhatit is that blokes go in fornowadays,what fetishes theyhave. Whatever it is, that’snot me. In straightforwardterms, I would like a nightwith an attractive woman. Awomanwho could be herself

and hopefully feel relaxed inmy company. I really hopethatwomancanbeyou,Roz.’Hehesitated.‘I find you wildly

attractive,’hesaidsoftly,‘thecurve of your body, the wayyoulaughwithoutpretence.Ithink about you when Ishouldn’t. I think aboutwhatitwouldbeliketobenexttoyou.’Then he seemed to gather

himself.

‘And so if you do decideyes,’hesaid,onceagainmoreformal, ‘then I don’t see anyreason why this can’t work.We’re both sensible adults,afterall.’‘Just to be clear, though,

Scott, this does involve sex,doesn’tit?’He smiled at my candour.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, RozToovey, this is very muchaboutsex.’‘Right,’Isaid.

‘And with regards to yourfee … I thought fourthousand pounds would be areasonable amount. For thenight.’‘Right,’Isaidagain.Thenhestood.‘Okay,’ he said, and held

out his hand, giving mine afirm shake, ‘if that’s all inaccordance with what youhad inmind,might I suggestadate?’Inodded.

‘This is probably a littlesoon, but I was thinking, ifit’s possible, then tomorroweveningwouldworkforme,Idon’tknowif—’I liftedmypalm to silence

him.I said, ‘I’ll seewhat I can

do.’

11

‘JESUSCHRIST,WINSTON,whendo I ever ask you foranything?’We were in my ex-

husband’s mother’s kitchen.It was around 6 p.m. andWinstonhadacanofWD40

inhishandandwasshakingitback and forth, back andforth,beforeapplyingittothechainofhisBMX,whichwasupturnedontopofthekitchentable.‘I never ask you, and the

one time, the one bloodytime,’Isaid.‘What’s so important that

you need to stay away allnight?’‘DoIquizyouonwhatyou

do?’

He shrugged. ‘I’d tell youif you did. What about yoursister,can’tshedoit?’‘She’s in New York with

Vince.’Winston cast me a

sideways glance. I probablydon’t need to mention thatWinston and Petra neverreally saw eye to eye – andthis was way beforeWinston’s eye wandered offto look at lots of otherwomen.

‘What’s she doing there?’hesaid.‘She’sforty.’‘And?’I sighed out heavily. ‘It’s

what people do, Winston.What normal people do tocelebratethebigmilestones.’‘Oh,’ he said, and nodded

thoughtfully, as thoughlearning this fact for the firsttime.Winston didn’t really get

celebrations. Formy thirtieth

birthday, he took me on anight out in Kendal.When Isay‘nightout’, Imeanapubcrawl – Winston never sawthe attraction in spending aday’s wage on a restaurantmeal, not when it could bebetter spent on beer. Atclosing time we stumbledtowards the taxi rank and,finding around thirty peopleinthequeue,Winstonkeptonwalking until he got to akebabhouse.

He dialled the phonenumber displayed andrequested two large doners(extra chilli, no onion) forhome delivery. When theclapped-out van pulled up inthe frontof the shopminuteslater,Winstongrabbedmebythehandandpulledmeacrossthe street, slipping thedelivery guy a fiver. Ridinghome amongst pizza boxesand an odd assortment ofgardening equipment (the

driver’s day job, it wouldappear), I fell in love withWinstonToovey.Petra said Winston was a

child trapped inside a man’sbody. She said he had noconcept of the adult worldandwhatitmeanttoputotherpeople’s needs before hisown.Which I couldn’t reallyargue with, given the statehe’dleftusin.ButWinston’sbig problem – his realproblem, in my mind – was

that he had no understandingof delayed gratification.When Winston wantedsomething,hewentandgotit.Even if he was broke hewouldalwaysfindaway.TheBMXthatwasinfront

of me was a new toy.Winstonwasforty-threeyearsold, living with his mother,no job to speakof, andwhatwashedoing?RidingBMXs.Winston thoughtPetrawas

amartyr.Hesaidshelikedto

make life hard for herself,andthereforeeveryoneelseinthe process. He glanced myway. ‘New York, then,’ hesaid.‘Yes.’‘ThoughtPetrawouldhave

preferred two weeks allinclusiveonacrucifix.’Iignoredhim.‘Is Vince all right?’ he

asked.Inodded.‘I’ve not seen him around

inawhile.’‘Vince is fine,Winston,’ I

replied.‘Poorsod,’hesaid.This was how Winston

referred to Petra’s husband:‘Vince, the Poor Sod’. Likehe had some grave illness orhad suffered a terribletragedy.WhenWinstonandIwereacoupleIwouldhavetoexplain to people, if Vince,the Poor Sod, cropped up inconversation, that Vince was

actually in good health, hadnothing wrong with him, infact, other than being thelong-suffering husband ofPetra.‘Winston,’ I said to him

now, sharply, ‘will you lookafteryoursonornot?’‘Iam lookingaftermyson

thiscomingweekend.Asperour arrangement. Buttomorrownight I haveplans.I might come home, I mightnot.Idon’tknowyet.’

‘Who are you seeing?Someteenager?’Heputthecandown.‘Who

areyouseeing,Roz?’‘No one. I’m not seeing

anyone. You know I’m not.ButifIweretoseesomeone,don’t thinkyoucouldgoand—’‘Roz,’ he said, smiling,

‘chill. You can see who youlike as far as I’m concerned.In fact, it’d do you good togetarelease.Itmightgetyou

offmybackforabit.’‘Pissoff,Winston.’He laughed and began

spinning the pedals of thebikebackwards, leaningintocheck the chain was runningsmoothly.‘Iloveitwhenyoutalk sexy, Roz. Swear at meagain,itremindsmeofwhenwe used to have great sexafter a big row. Do youremember that timewhenwewere at Aira Force, thewaterfall…’

Hiswordstrailedoffashisexpressionturnedwistful.‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ I

said, grabbing my bag andshouting forGeorge to comethrough from where he waswatching television in thefrontroom.‘Roz, Roz,’ Winston said,

reachingout,puttinghishandon my shoulder. ‘I’m justpullingyourleg.‘’CourseI’lldo it. Justwanted to seeyousweatabit.’

I slapped his hand awayand looked at him. ‘You’resuch a bloody childsometimes.’‘Don’tbemad.’‘You make me mad.

Christ,’ I whispered, andclosedmyeyes.Turning away from him, I

placed both hands on thekitchen work surface andtook a steadying breath. Infront ofme therewas a neatrow of vegetables.One large

onion, two carrots, a stick ofceleryandsix largescrubbedpotatoes. Thursdays, Ithought, picturing Winston’smother,Dylis, inherwipableapron and Scholl sandals.Thursdays meant shepherd’spie,regardlessoftheweather,and Dylis had arranged heringredients ready to cook forthe following day. This wasthesimplicityofDylis’slife.Iturnedaround.‘I’munder

a lot of pressure at the

moment,’ I told Winstonfinally.‘You put yourself under a

lot of pressure. Anyway,’ hesaid, just asGeorge came in,‘are you going to tell mewhereyou’regoingornot?’I began busying myself,

rummaging about inmybag,pretending to locate my carkeys.‘LikeIsaid,it’saworkthing.’I raised my head and

Winston was regarding me

sceptically.‘Oh yeah,’ he said. ‘A

workthing.’Hetookapoundcoinfrom

thepocketofhisjeans,beforepassingitovertoGeorge.‘Be a good lad for your

mum,’hetoldhim.

A word of caution: Shouldyou ever find yourself in thesame position as me, do notread up on the subject ofescortsandescortagenciesin

preparation.Youwillpanic.Granted, Belle de Jour’s

The IntimateAdventuresofaLondon Call Girl wasprobablynotthebestplacetostart,butitwastheonlybookstocked by W. H. Smith inWindermere that was evenvaguely connected with thesubject.Ihadreadonlyasfaras chapter three beforerealizing what was ‘normal’forme certainly didn’t apply

to large chunks of thepopulation. I closed thebookfeeling pretty grubby, glad Ididn’t get a copy from thelibrary, hoping that whenScott Elias said he wanted‘nothing weird’ he actuallymeant it, and then I tried togetsomesleep.When I woke, it was with

thedeepestsenseofdread.Dread that I had to go

throughwith this thing that Idesperately did not want to

do.Petra got migraines when

shefoundherselfnotlookingforward to something. Notthat dread had ever beenopenly acknowledged as thecause. She took a cocktail ofmedicationtopreventattacks,which,accordingtoher,cameabout from changes inatmospheric pressure,hormone fluctuations and,occasionally, preservatives inpork products. Invariably,

though, they tended tocoincide with trips to seeVince’smotherathernursinghome in Wigan and schoolgovernors’ meetings, where,assecretary,shewasrequiredtotakedowntheminutes,andthose things had a habit ofrunningonandon.Isatupandswungmylegs

out the bed. A layer of dusthad collected along theskirtingboard.Hanging down from

beneath the radiator therewere three cobwebbedclumps. The house badlyneededattention.From the open window I

heard a door close and, amoment later, the softwhineof Celia’s gate, followed byan engine turning over.Foxy’smorningwalk.Like a lot of older folk,

Dennis liked to reverse hiscaroutreadyforitsouting,ahalf-hour or so before they

actually planned to leave.Asthoughthecaritselfneededasmall preparatory run beforebeingfullyreadytobedrivenanyrealdistance.Igotupandwalked to the

window. Watched asDennis’s Rover crept awayquietly and disappeared outof sight. Such a gentle soul,Dennis. In contrast to Celia,who,whenI’dgonearoundtocollect George the previouseveningwasblowinghardon

a refereeing whistle straightintohermobilephone.I’dnoticedthewhistleona

ribbon around her neck andassumed itwas for retrievingFoxy if she strayed too far.Forgetting, of course, thatFoxy was reluctant to walk,never mind stray. When I’dshotCeliaaquestioning lookshe informed me it was herwayofdealingwithnuisancetelesalescallers.‘Isn’t thata littlebrutal?’I

asked. ‘I mean, they’rewearingheadsets,Celia.’‘Not at all. They are so

insistent … not to mentionrude. It’s no less than theydeserve,’ she said. Then shewent on to tell me howGeorge had been walkingFoxy and how Foxypositively pranced along forhim. Hardly pulling on theleadatall,shesaid.I walked away from the

window and stood at the

mirror.Thewrong side of forty. I

liftedmyrighthandandgaveaslowwave,watchingastheflesh of the tricep swungmethodically, as thoughunattached. This was a newdevelopment, the firstdeterioration I’d noticed asmy body marched towardsmiddleage.Iwasstillstrong.Ihadgoodupperbodyshapeand a lean, hardmusculaturethat came from the job, and

yet…And I’d started smiling at

dogs recently. Which wasdefinitely a sign of gettingolder.We had arranged to meet

north of Lancaster at acountry inn not far from themotorway exit. It was anhour’s journey from home,which I agreed with ScottElias was ample, and itserved the expensive gastro-pub-type fare at silly enough

prices toputoff themajorityof people we might bumpinto. Itwas thekindofplacethat seemedpurpose-built forclandestinecouples;itoffereda refined, elegantenvironment, with well-trained staff avoiding theusual interrogation a touristwould need to feel properlywelcomed: Where have youtravelled from? Have youstayed with us before? WastheM6trulyawfultoday?

The difficulty came inknowing what to wear. Iexpected Scottwantedme todresslikeawoman.Butwhatdid one wear for dinner at acountry inn, midweek, inruralLancashire?Tricky.This wasn’t a date. And I

foundmyselfwiththeuneasysensation of wanting toappearpresentableforthejobwhich Iwasemployed todo,whilst at the same time

feeling hugely self-consciousat the prospect of lookingsexy for a man who, undernormal circumstances, Iwouldn’tsleepwith.Iopenedmywardrobeand

waitedforinspiration.Onthefarrightwasafloaty,chiffondress from Coast covered intea roses that I wore for aweddinglastyear.Too weddingy. And

perhapsatadvirginal.Next to it was my

Christmas-party staple: awraparound black dress thatwascuttoolowinthefront.Iwouldpullituphighearlyinthe evening, pull it lowernearer to midnight –depending on how much I’dhad to drink and who wasaround.Then there were three

identicaldresses,Petra’scast-offs and what I woulddescribe as conservative.With the right underwear,

though, they could be madeto look a little sexy. Petraboughtthesedresseslastyearand she’d since lost weight,claimingtheynowburiedher,andIwasmorethanhappytogive them a home,unoffended by her comment,because Never look a gifthorse,andsoon.I decided on the vivid

green version and slipped iton quickly to check therewere no loose threads, no

ugly creases across thetummyor stains I’d failed tonotice when I’d last taken itoff. I wouldn’t have a greatdeal of time after work toprepare and so wanted tohave this side of things wellorganizedaheadofschedule.Itlookedgood.Attractive,notslutty,andI

could easily pass for acompany CEO, the type ofwomanwho refused to dresslikeamanjustbecauseofher

position.Satisfiedwith thechoice, I

went to get George hisWeetabix and sort out hispackedlunch.Weweredownto the dregs again: slightlystalebreadandanunbrandedcream cheese that had theadvantage of staying freefrom mould for around amonth. I cut thecrustsoff toperk up the sandwich andexaminedabananawhich,ifIwere a different kind of

woman, with a different oflife, would declare was fitonly to make banana breadwith. I tossed the lot into aBargain Booze plastic bag,along with George’s waterbottle, which was beginningto smell of damp dishclotharoundtherim.Poorkid.Tyingitup,Ifoundmyself

murmuringthatthiswouldallchange soon. This time nextweek, after my landlord was

paid, there would be enoughmoney in my account toafford a Tesco’s homedelivery, and George couldhavesushiforhis lunchifhesowished.Thistimenextweekthings

would be ticking over againand my evening with Scottwould be on its way tobecomingamemory.

12

‘GOOD EVENING,’ I said. ‘I’mheretomeetaresident,ScottElias. Could you tell me ifhe’scheckedinyet?’I hadn’t spotted Scott’s

Ferrari in the car park, soexpectedhewasrunninglate.

‘Mr Elias is waiting foryouin thebararea.I’llshowyou through.Wouldyou liketo leave your overnight baghere,and I’ll arrange tohaveittakentoyourroom?’‘Thankyou,yes,’Ireplied.I followed the young man

into a pleasant, spacioushallway, dotted with antiqueoccasional tables and freshlyupholstered French diningchairs,beforehestoppedandgestured towards a doorway

ontheright.He smiled. ‘Just through

here,’ he said. ‘Enjoy yourevening.’The furniture was cleverly

arranged to give rise to anumber of distinct spaces toaffordprivacy.Therewerenolarge sofas. Instead, highlypolished maple coffee tableswere encircled by armchairsof differing designs, allcarefully chosen to blendwiththemutedsageandivory

decor.As I entered the room

further, I became aware ofScottrisefromhisseatatthefar end and smilemyway. Ipassedacoupleintheirearlysixties who were reading –she a copy of DavidHockney’s A Bigger Pictureand he a biography of thejockey A. P. McCoy. Sheglanced up as I came theirway and then immediatelydown towards my shoes, I

assumed to see what I’dpaired with the green dress.Judgingbyhersmallsmileofsatisfaction, it appeared thattheblackpatentwereentirelythewrongchoice.‘Roz,’ said Scott, taking

my hands and kissingme onboth cheeks, ‘so good to seeyou.’He smelled lemon fresh

and had taken a little sunsince I’d seenhimyesterday.It suited him: he looked

younger,healthy.There was an open

briefcase on the coffee tableand two stacks of papers totheside.‘Nice ruse,’ I said quietly,

nodding to the briefcase.Scott had skilfully arrangedthings to give the impressionofabusinessmeeting.‘You look stunning,’ he

said ‘What can I get you todrink?’‘Oh – anything –

anything,’ I stammered. ‘I’llhaveanythingwet.’‘I’m drinking red. But if

you’d prefer some fizz, orhowaboutacocktail?’‘Red’sgreat.’‘It’s really good to see

you,’ he said again, holdingmy gaze for a moment toolongbeforegesturingtowardsthebartender.We settled into our seats.

Nervous, I crossed my legsoneway, and then the other.

Not in a Sharon Stone way,since I was wearingunderwear. Underwear thathad a habit of misbehaving,forcing me to wriggle in thechair.‘I didn’t see your car,’ I

said.‘No, I’m inmy other.’He

dropped his voice. ‘TheFerrari’s not great when mysciatica flares up, to behonest.’I tried to smile. ‘That’s

why the football players allswitchedtoRangeRovers.’‘Because of sciatica?’ he

said, surprised. ‘They’re tooyoung,surely?’‘If you drive with your

knees higher than your hips,it irritates the nerve root,sending the hamstringmuscles into spasm. Whichmeans they’remore liable totear when suddenlystretched.’‘Ah,’ he said as my glass

arrived. ‘Anyway, you don’twant to talk shop, I’m sure.Howwasyourday?’‘Hot.Tedious.Yours?’‘The same.’ He poured,

passed me the glass andraised his own. ‘To you,’ hesaid,andwaitedasIliftedtheglasstomylips.We were presented with

the menus and guidedthrough the chef’srecommendations of the dayby the maître d’, an affable

chap who made animpression on account of hisimmense bulk. It occurred tomeasheandScottwentontotalk of vintages and regions,the terroir of some obscurevalley in the LanguedocregionofFrance,thatitwasaposition usually held by averythinperson.I declined the option of a

starter and went for JohnDorywithclamsforthemaincourse. Under normal

circumstances, I wouldchoose something slowcooked and indulgent –roastedporkbellywithaportwinejus–somethingIwouldnever cook for myself athome. But this was work.AndIwasnervous.And,asImentioned earlier, Scott wasin good shape. The nightcould turn athletic on asixpence,andIwouldbesuretoregretaheavystomach.This was what was going

throughmy headwhen Scottleaned in and whispered,‘You’refrowning.Relax.’‘I’ve never done this

before.’‘It doesn’t mean we can’t

enjoy the evening. I askedyouhere because Iwant youto have a good time, I don’twantyoutobeonedge.’Idroppedmyhead.‘Do you regret coming?’

heasked.AndIhesitated.

Reaching out, he touchedtheskinofmythroatwithhismiddle finger. His mannerwaslazy,asthoughhe’ddonethis action a thousand timesbefore, and I found myselfcasting around the room,furtively, as though he’dperformed something terriblyillicit. ‘I don’t regret it for asecond,’hesaid,andthenourtablewasready.

Though the British

countryside was enjoyinganother hot summer evening,the light inside the diningroom was subdued and dim.Dark,heavycurtainslinedthewindows and the walls werecovered in a chocolate,hessian-type of wallpaper,which gave the room anelegant,sultryfeel.For no reason other than I

was programmed to do so(every twenty minutes), mythoughts turned to George.

Instinctively, I opened myhandbag to check for the redwarningflashofmymobile.‘All okay?’ Scott asked as

wewereseated,andInodded.‘Nodisasterstoreport.’I went to speak again and

thought better of it, closingmymouth.‘You were going to say

something?’hesaid.‘It’snotimportant.’‘Youweregoingtotellme

aboutyourson.’

Itwastrue.Iwas.‘Go ahead, please,’ he

urged.SoIrambledonforawhile

about nothing in particular,all the while Scott regardingmewithakeen interest,as ifwhat I had to say was bothenlightening and humorous,neither of which wasaccurate. I’d been aroundenough people to know thatdivorced parents of an onlychild can talk about the kid

until hell freezes over ifallowedto.Parentsofthreeorfour children barely mentionthem. I made a concertedeffort not to bore peopleabout George and haddecided before the start ofthis evening that the wholepointofitwastoletScotttalkabout himself. He wasn’tpayingtohearaboutme.Except now it seemed as

thoughhewas.Hepouredmorewineand,

whenI’dgottotheendofmyanecdote, I leaned forward,restedmy chin on top ofmyhands.‘Tellmewhywe’rehere,’I

saidbluntly.He laughed, replyingwith,

‘I thought I’d made thatclear.’Ishookmyhead.‘Iwantto

know why. Why me? Whylikethis?’Andheshrugged.‘Scott,’ I said in a forced

whisper, ‘there are plenty ofoptionsavailableforamaninyour position. I mean, ifwe’regoing toget realaboutit, I’m quite sure there arewomen–plentyofwomen–you come across in youreveryday life, whowould bewilling to become yourmistressforfree.’‘For free?’ he answered,

his tone cynical. Meaningnothingwasforfree,asfarashewasconcerned.

‘Okay,maybenotforfree,’I said. ‘Butyougetmydrift.You could throw in the oddmini break, and a nicenecklace now and again, andyou would get what youneededoutofit.’I raised my glass to my

lips, studying his face. Hisexpression was neutral, buttherewasaplayfulquality inhis eyes and Iwas unable toholdhisgaze.Itwasthefirsttime Iwouldsense that there

was more to Scott, moregoing on beneath the surfacethanhewasreadytoreveal.‘Mistresses don’t quite

workoutlikethat,’hesaid.‘No?’‘They want more. They

always want the wholepackage. Sure, they start offsaying what it is that youwanttohear.Theydon’twanta relationship, casual meet-upssuit themfine,andsoonand so forth. But these

womenwantromancing,theywant two or three dinnersbefore they’ll even entertaintheideaof…’Hepaused.Tiltedhishead

toonesidetoletmeworkouttherestformyself.‘I can see that could take

sometime,’Isaid.He leaned in. ‘Basically, it

becomes hard work. Andonce the initial sex is out ofthe way, they want more.They’renothappywithbeing

on the sidelines, even thoughtheyprotest it’snot like that.They sulk because theywanttotakeNadine’splace.AndIcanunderstandit,Ireallycan.But I just don’t need theearache,frankly.’‘Well,whataboutthemore

straightforward approach?’ Isuggested.‘Youmeananescort?’‘Yes. Why go to all this

trouble, all this expense,’ Isaid, making a sweeping

motionwithmy hand, ‘for anormal person like me?Christ, I’m no expert in thisstuff, Scott. I might not beable togiveyouwhatyou’reexpecting.’A smile played across his

lips as he weighed hisresponse.Theroomwasnowfilling with diners, couplespausing as they entered theroom directly from thegarden,theireyesadjustingtothe reduced light. Men in

pressed short-sleeved shirts,theirforeheadsshinyfromthesun,waited for their partnersbefore proceeding. Thewomen tottered in onplatform heels, carryingchampagneflutes,eachwitharosy blush developing at thetopoftheircleavage.Scott placed both palms

flatonthetableclothoneithersideofthecutlery,andtappedhisfingerstwice.Unusually, he seemed

reluctant to talk. After aminute, he said ‘I haveexplored the other optionsavailable in the past andwithout going into too muchdetail, I can tell you theywerenotforme.Eachhasitsowndrawbacks.’‘What about Nadine?’ I

askedsoftly.‘Whatabouther?’‘Doyoustillloveher?’His eyes widened. ‘Of

course,’hesaid. ‘Ofcourse I

loveher.’‘But …?’ And then a

thought occurred. ‘Scott,’ Isaid quickly, panicked, ‘shedoesn’tknowaboutthis,doesshe?’He shook his head in

bafflement, as if to say,WhywouldIasksuchthing?‘Nadine doesn’t know,’ he

said. ‘Nadine will neverknow.Thisisnotsomegame,Roz.’‘Thenwhatisit?’

He reached for his wineand downed the remainderfrom his glass. ‘Okay,’ hesaid, ‘I’ll do my best toexplain. I loveNadine. Iwillalways love her. We have agoodlifetogether.It’sjust—’‘She doesn’t understand

you?’‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s not

that.’‘She doesn’t enjoy the

physical side of therelationshipanymore?’

He gave an awkwardlaugh.‘Notsomuch,no.Butthat’snotiteither.’I sat back in my chair.

‘Oh,’Isaidquietly.The food arrived and the

waiter made a big show oflisting all the ingredients ineach dish. I felt impatient,wanting to interrupt him andsay,‘Yes,Irememberwhat Iordered, thank you.’ Hewasdoing that thing they do onMasterchef, trying to make

the food sound moreupmarket, saying he wasserving me a fillet of JohnDoryonapotatorosti,withaartichokeandclam…Aartichoke.When did people lose the

abilitytospeak?IrolledmyeyesatScottas

the waiter rattled off his listof ingredients, and Scottsmiled. With the moodlightened, I said, ‘You don’tneed to explain further. I

didn’tmeantopry.IsupposeIjustneededclarification.’‘ThatI’mnotalunatic?’I nodded. ‘I think I

assumed that the men whopay for thiskindof thingarelooking for a differentexperience. Something theycannotgetfromtheirwives.’‘Youmean paying entitles

themtodowhatevertheyliketoawoman?’‘Yes.’‘I’m not looking to

dominateordemean,’hesaid.‘Nadine and I have lost ourconnection,that’sall.Westillhaveasexlife,butthere’snointimacy, no real feelingthere. And I miss it. Just asit’s necessary for some mentoseeanescortasameansofrelease,ameansofgettingridof theirstress,formeit’s theopposite.Ineedphysicalloveto function and, for a varietyof reasons, I cannot get itfromNadineanylonger.’

‘But why me? Why allnight?’‘Youmeanasopposedtoa

professional?’‘Yes.’‘Simple. You’re exactly

whatI thinkawomanshouldbe. You’re sexy withouttrying, you exude a kind ofwarmth that’s missing frommost women. And withregards to a professional, Idon’t want to be whereanothermanhasbeen.’

Icoughed,inhalingasmallamount of wine. ‘I’m novirgin,Scott.’‘No,’ he said, smiling,

‘you’renot.But Idon’twanttobewhere anothermanhasbeenjusthoursbeforehand.Itfeels unclean. It really is aconveyor belt. That’s not forme. And I don’t mean tosound boastful when I saythis, but I’ve reached a stageinmy lifewhen I can affordtodoitmyway.Icanafford

to have the experience as Iwant it.Real intimacywitharealwoman.’Thefullweightofhisgaze

upon me, he leaned back inhis chair. ‘In short,’ he said,‘I can afford to have you,Roz.’

13

THERE ISAmemory I haveofwatching the film IndecentProposal.Agaggleofuswhowere home from universityfor the spring bank holidaywent to the Royalty CinemainBowness.It’soneof those

quaint old cinemas that arebecoming obsolete. Back in1993 it had just a singlescreenandthegirlwhoissuedtheticketsalsoshowedyoutoyour seat, as well asappearing with a tray of icecreams (hung by a straparound her neck) as the filmwasabouttostart.Shewouldstand at the front, self-consciously waiting forpeople to approach, valiantlyignoring the sweet wrappers

aimedatherfromthebalconyabove.Indecent Proposal was the

one film that we came outreally talking about. As agroup, we were split rightdown the middle on thewould you?/wouldn’t you?issue.Wouldyouspendonenight

with Robert Redford inexchange for a milliondollars?Those of us who were

naiveandhighlyprincipledatthat age exited saying,‘Definitelynot.Youcan’tbuylove.’ (But then we allquickly agreed that DemiMoore’s black strappy dresswas amazing. To die for, infact. And who knew whatyou’d do if someonepresented you with such anitem? Sure, Robert Redfordwas getting on in years bythen, but that dress was sonice.

How uncomplicated ourliveswere.Sillygirls,eachofus certain we were going tosettheworldonfireandthat,if we didn’t manage that forsomereason,therewasstillachance a good-looking guywould come to our rescue,becausethat’swhathappenedinthemovies.Before leaving for my

assignation with Scott, I’dstood in my underwear,examining my reflection,

wondering if it was reallypossible for aman to pay tohave sex with a normalwoman like me. I had bigdoubts. Physically, I was nohorrorbag but I was a longway from the images on thefrontofthelads’mags,alongway from the quintessentialmale fantasy. Now, though,fromwhatScotthadjustsaid,and the fervour with whichhis small speech wasdelivered, it appeared that I

was wrong. Scott was morethan willing to pay for anormal woman like me.Normal was exactly what hecravedandcouldn’tfind.ButcouldIactuallydoit?Could I lie next to aman,

let him inside me? Formoney?I thought about the past

coupleofyearssinceWinstonand I had parted. There hadbeendrunkensex, sexwithacoupleofsadfellowswhomI

went to bed with because Ifelt sorry for them. There’dbeen that sex with WinstonthatIpretendeddidn’thappenbutWinstonlikedtobringupevery time I asked him formoney.Andthere’dbeensexwithaguyIdidn’treallylike,but itdidmyegosomegoodon account of him beingyounger and attractive andthe school football coach.Every woman over thirtywould flick her hair

excessively in his presence.All this to say that I hadenjoyed sex with each ofthesemen, despite none of itbeing perfect, or hearts andflowers, so yes, I thought, Icouldgothroughwithit.ExceptnowIwasnervous.Facing Scott Elias, I

realized that this wasn’tdrunken, no-strings sex. Thiswas an intelligent, articulateman who expected anexperience.Aswepushedour

chairs away from the table,and he tookmy arm, gently,guiding me away from theother diners, I just hoped tohell I could give it to him.Because the spark ofattraction I would normallyfeelbeforegoing tobedwitha man had just diminished.Sure, I was flattered by hiswords, because, whowouldn’tbe?Itwasnicetobetalkedaboutinthatway.AndI have to admit when I first

met Scott there was a realmagnetism between us. Butthe way he was so sure ofhimself just now, thewayheassumed that money couldbuy whatever he liked,whatever he wanted, had theeffect on me of making himsomewhat undesirable. He’dcrossed a line few peoplewould ever think of crossingandhisremarksaboutbuyingmehadleftasourtasteinmymouth.

Even though he was justbeing honest. Even though Iwashere for thatveryreason–tobebought.So I hoped I could go

throughwithwhat I’d signedup for. Because in less thantwoweeksIwouldbeevictedifIdidn’tdosomething.And,up to now, praying for amiracle hadn’t helped at all,so theway I saw it, thiswastheonlychanceIhad.‘Would you like another

drinkatthebar?’Scottasked,and though I didn’t, Iaccepted, deciding thatanother drinkwould take theedge off my nerves and alsodelaythingsalittle.Iorderedaginandtonic.Ididhavetogotoworkthefollowingday,after all, and I was alwaysbetter in the morning after alongdrinkratherthanwine.Itwasonlyaswewerewellintoa conversation about Scott’selectronics business and how

he was forever faced withlosingclericalstaffforweeksat a time due to repetitivestrain injury and other suchwork-related illnesses that Inoticed I was beginning todrift a little, not reallyconcentrating on his words.So I excused myself andheadedtotheLadiestosplashalittlewateronmyface.Passingthecloakroom,my

attention was caught by aman sitting at the small

second bar just a shortdistance from the receptionarea.It was the insurance agent

who’d taken blood fromme.He wore a white shirt, a tiewasloosenedathisthroatandhe’d rolled up his sleeves onaccount of the heat. He satsideon,alongsideaheavy-setmanwhosebulkappearedtoomuch for the stool and theywere both drinking pints ofbitter.

Myheartstuttered.On realizingwhohewas I

musthaveblanchedwhite,orelse my expression froze,because he smiled at mebefore tilting the rim of hisglass my way. It was analmost imperceptible gesture– his companion didn’t turnaround to look–and thenhecontinued talking happily,taking a handful ofwhateversnackhadbeenplacedonthebar.

My pulse thumped in mythroat as I hurried to theLadies. I hadn’t expected tobump into anyone I knew,least of all him, and theriskinessofwhatIwasdoingsuddenlyhithome.When I returned, Scott

asked, ‘Are you okay?You’vegonealittlepale.’‘What?Oh,no, I’m fine. I

wasthinkingIcouldprobablydowith fresheningupa littlebefore…What Imean is,’ I

stammered, because hadn’t Ijustdoneexactlythat?‘WhatImeanis,Ididn’tgetchanceto unpack my things onarriving.’‘No problem,’ he said,

realizing it was probablynervesmakingme so jumpy,‘I’m happy to remain downhere. Whatever you need tofeelcomfortable.’Hereachedoutandstroked

his thumb along the back ofmyhand.

I stared at it, fixated. Theurge to check over myshoulder was overwhelming,butIkeptmyeyesdowncast.‘Roz?’ Scott asked.

‘You’re sure you’re okay?Yourhandisshaking.’‘Is it?’ I pulled it away. I

smiledatScottandstarted tostand. ‘Give me fifteenminutes?’Walking towards the

staircase,Istolealookacrossto the second bar. The

insurance agentwas standingnow,readytoleave,laughingas his drinking partner madebig expansive gestures withhis hands, as though wavingin aircraft. I got theimpression it was forcedlaughter.Perhapshe,likeme,washereonbusiness.Heglancedoverand,when

he saw I was watching, hewinked.Embarrassed, I hurried

away.

Cardsonthetable:ThenightwasnotwhatIexpected.Moneychangeseverything,

thatmuchIknowforsure.Ifyou were to speak to arandom selection of mypatients they would reportthat Roz Tooveyphysiotherapist was kind,attentive, a remarkably goodlistener,non-judgementalandalways happy to listen ifsomeoneneededagoodmoanortogiveoutadviceifasked.

Ofcourse, Iwasn’talwaysthosethings.Iwasbeingpaidto be those things. Thinkabout it, when was the lasttime you said exactly whatyou were thinking to yourboss? Or to anyone at work,forthatmatter?When you’re self-

employed, the customers areyourbosses.Ifyoudon’tgivethem what they want, youdon’tgetpaid.Simpleasthat.And even though I was no

longer self-employed, I wasvery much aware that if Ididn’t perform well as aclinician, if I didn’t give thepatients exactly what theyexpected, I would bereplaced. And so I gave mybestphysicalself:performingback-breaking lifting andmanoeuvring, bending overfor extended periods, mythumbs losing their feelingfromtheunremittingpressureput through them. I gavemy

bestempatheticself:listeningtopatients’worries,concernsabout their lives, theirchildren’s lives, their moneyworries, their health issues. Igave my best educationalself: repeating facts abouthealing, posture, about thelinks with stress andmyofascialpain,factsthatI’dbeen reciting all day, everyday, year in year out. And Igave my best in merrimentand entertainment, acting as

though the patients were thefunniest, wittiest, mostenjoyablepeopleintheworldtospendtimewith.Ilistened,smiling accordingly, as oldmen recited tedious jokes, asold women discussed howfunnyAlanCarrwas.At theendofeachdayIwouldhaveso little left for George – solittleleftforme,infact–thatthe most I could do was sitmuteandexpressionless,untilitwastimetogotobed.

As I prepared myself, andthe room, for the knock onthe door, I believe I lost thefeelingofshameaboutwhatIwas going to do. I had beenscared up until that point,scared of being found out,scared of being judged bysocietyatlarge.Whatkindofwomen sells her body formoney?When I realized thatI’d been selling myself forclose to twenty years, albeitin a way that was deemed

acceptable but, to be honest,was ultimately just asdamaging and, perhaps onsome level, even more souldestroying, I became filledwith the kind of strength I’dnotfeltinthelongesttime.There is a moment just

beforeawomangivesbirth,amoment when terror turns tomight, a kind of take no shitattitude, when she realizes itis up to her to take controland get this baby out safely.

If she doesn’t do it, no onewill.It was this feeling, this

strength of purpose, thiscapacitytoprevail, thatfilledmeinthosemomentsaloneinthe hotel room. No one wasgoingtocomeandrescuemefromthefinancialsituationinwhichIfoundmyself.Ieitherlay down and surrendered,concededdefeat,orIfoundawaytokeepgoing.So Iwasno longer scared.

I was defiant. If Scott Eliaswanted a warm, attentivewoman to satisfy his sexualneeds, then here she was.Righthere.The suite had a New

England theme going on:white furniture, pale duck-egg fabrics, pictures ofNantucket lighthouses, ableachedwoodenfloorwithalarge, downywhite rug at itscentre. The bed was a fourposter,whichI’dbeenkindof

dreading. Images of me,tethered and spread-eagled, asock stuffed in my mouth,had plagued my dreams thenight before. But I got thefeeling Scott had chosen thissuite on account of itssimplicity, its non-boudoirfeel.Asthoughhewasaboveallthatsex-inducingclaptrap.I adjusted the slatted

woodenblindstoallowjustasmall amount of twilight andunpacked my overnight bag.

Inthebathroom,Isteppedoutofmydressandarrangedmycosmetics, taking a momentto swipe a dampened cotton-wool ball beneathmy lashes.I performed a perfunctorytoilet before applying a freshcoat of lipstick and gloss.Finally, I arranged my hairinto a loose chignon whichcould be easily unclippedshouldthatberequired.I stepped back into my

dress and checked my

appearancefromallangles.Ihadtoyedwiththeideaof

a negligee. But thenanswering the door in heels,fullmake-up and a babydoll,seemed bordering on sleazy.Rightly or wrongly, I’ddecided that Scott was thetype of man who enjoyedundressing a woman, orenjoyedwatchingtheritualofherundressingand,besides,anegligeewasnotsomethingIwasinpossessionof.

I pulled back thebedclothes and switched ononeof thebedsidelampsandthenanotheroverby theTV.ThenIcuttheharshoverheadlight before surveying theroom.Almostready.In the drinks cabinet,

which housed the fridge,there was a selection ofminiatures. I took two singlemalt whiskeys and pouredthemintotumblers.Aknockatthedoor.

Itookonefinallookinthemirror. My generalappearanceIwashappywith,butIhadthehardened,steelyexpression of an Olympicsprinterbeforearace.Oneseton unnerving his opponentsbeforegettingintheblocks.I took a deep breath and

shookoutmyarms,rolledmyshoulders to loosen thetension.Ready.I opened the door and

regarded Scott. ‘The room’sgreat,’Isaid.‘Gladyoulikeit.’Imovedasidetoallowhim

past.One thing Iwill say about

Scott, his confidence wasmagnetic.Herehewas,doingsomethingconsideredjustnotcricket in polite society, andtherewasnohintofapology.No dip in his posture oruncertainty in his eyes. Heheld himself with utter

assurance. Itwas hard not tobeaffectedbyit.Iwonderedinthatmoment

ifwomenwere programmed,inanevolutionaryway,tobeturned on by such self-beliefas a means of self-preservation.Breedwithsuchamanandhewillprotectyouto the death. Or maybe thatwas nonsense and it wassimply down to money.Womenwereturnedonatthesight of money because it

meant security, and perhapsthe only reason Scott Eliaswassoconfidentwasbecausehehadplentyofit.Scottsatdownatthetable.

‘What are we drinking?’ hesaid.‘Singlemalt.’With the glass in hand, he

examined me slowly, frommyheadtomytoes,andthenupagain,withasteadyairofappreciation. The way onemightdowhenlookingovera

classic E type, or well-proportioned, prize-winninglivestock. In a matter ofsecondshe’dbecomeserious.‘Ilikeyourhairlikethat,’hesaid.Instinctively, I lifted my

hand to my face, neverentirely comfortable with acompliment.Imovedtowardshimsowe

were almost touching. Istayed standing, and the airbetweenScott’sthighandthe

bare skin of my leg becamecharged.InthatspaceIcouldfeel the rapid exchange ofheat.‘So how does this go?’ I

whispered.‘You give yourself in

whatever way you feel you…’ He paused. And then,‘I’msimplyhereto—’But he broke off again. I

sensed he wanted to saymore,wanted to revealmoreof himself, but for some

reason wouldn’t, or elsecouldn’t.Hebegantracinghisfingers up the outside of mythigh. I watched him admirethe curve of my hips.Watched him carefully as heexhaled, his fingers nowresting beneath the cheek ofmyrear.I took the drink from him

andplaceditonthetable.Leaning over, I put both

hands on the back of hischair, and with my face

inches from his, murmured,‘It’s your party, Scott. Tellmewhatitisthatyouwant.’He pressed his mouth

against mine and I wassurprisedby thesmall,headythrillthatcameoverme.The kiss. Sweeter than

anticipated.I pulled back and looked

intohiseyes.‘Take off your dress,’ he

said.

14

I SAT ON the bench waiting,arranging crisps inside asandwich.Petra had returned home

fromNewYork the previousevening and she seemed tohave forgotten about the

humiliationofherbirthdayasshewasstraightonthephonetellingmewe absolutely hadto have lunch, because shewas bursting to tell me allabout the trip. She thenproceededtotellmeallaboutthe trip, but I was lookingforward to seeing hernonetheless. I tended tomissher when she was away.Sometimes to the extent ofexperiencing a real visceralache, a kind of homesick

feeling, which perplexed mebecause, when she wasaround,shedrovemecrazy.Families. I’m not sure we

ever fullymake sense of ourconnections.The bench was one of the

fewscatteredalongCockshotPoint, an area of lakeshoreownedby theNationalTrust.There’s a wide shingle path,free from cars,which at firstwinds its way through apretty wooded area, before

openinguptogiveexpansiveviews both up and down thelake.It’s popular with tourists

andlocalsalike,dogwalkers,andyoungmumswithprams.Iwouldoftenheaddownhereif Ineeded toclearmyhead.There’s something aboutgazingatthewater,itlappinggently at the shore, whichwoulduncluttermy thoughts.Enable me to see a waythrough whatever problem

wasplaguingme.I’d suggested to Petra we

should meet here because itwasn’t far from the clinic, orher school, and Bownessitself would be teemingwithtouristsonadayliketoday.Four swans landed on the

water in succession and adelightedteeninawheelchairclappedhishands togetheratthe spectacle, just as I sawPetraapproach.Emerging from the trees,

shelookedcity-chicinapink,fitted dress and matchingpumps.Shecarriedwithheranew handbag and woreoversized sunglasses, and Iwondered what the denimskirtsandcheeseclothsmocksat schoolmust havemade ofher appearance that morninginthestaffroom.Petragaveasmall, excitedwave to signalshe’d spottedme and headedmy way. Her pace was fastbutherstridelengthrestricted

onaccountoftheclose-fittingdress,which allwent to givetheimpressionofawomanonamission,awomanwhowasonherwaytogiveapersonapieceofhermind.Perhapsshewas, I thought

idly, as she left the path,cutting an angle across thegrass. Perhaps, in betweenspeaking with me thismorning and this moment,shehadcometodiscoverjustwhat I’d been doing with

ScottEliasinacountryhotel.Today was Thursday. I wasscheduled tomeetScottoncemore at a different venue onFriday and, apart from thegeneralfeelingofanxietythatcomes with conductingoneself as a secret prostitute,unlike before, this time Iwasn’ttotallydreadingit.Here’s what I learned

about Scott Elias the nightbefore last: His pleasurewasderived directly from the

pleasure he gave to thewomanhewaswith.I’d say he wasn’t unusual

in this respect.Mostmen I’dknown were not selfish inbed.Scratchthat,noneof themen I’d known were selfishin bed. They wanted theirwomantocome.Theywantedto be the one to make theirwomancome.Theyneededtofeel her muscles contractinghard around them to reachorgasmthemselves.

Scott was no different.Except that I’d mistakenlyassumed that, since he waspaying for it, my enjoymentwouldn’tbepartofthedeal.I was wrong. Scott was

tender, lustful,givingand,asI lay there at three in themorning, when we finallydecided to call it a night, Iwas thinking,Did that reallyjust happen? It was not themostmind-blowingsexofmylife, but I’ll say this, it

certainlywasn’ttheworstsexI’deverhad.Theelectrifyingjoyoftruedesirewasabsent,but I was more than a littleinto it. And compared withsome of the shoddyexperiences I’d had in thepast, therewas theadditionalturn-on to be had just fromthe sheer decadence of thewholething.I made up my mind there

and then that ifScottwantedtorepeattheevening,Iwould

doit.Four thousand pounds for

onenight?Ididn’thave the luxuryof

refusing.In a fewweeks I could be

backonmyfeet. I couldpayoff my landlord, clear thecredit-card balance andreimburse people I neverthought I’d be able to paybackinthislifetime.It would be a chance to

start over. To finally put the

mistakes of my past behindme.Ihadtodoitagain.‘Crisp sandwiches?’ said

Petra disdainfully after we’dembraced,tuttingandshakingher head as she dusted downthe bench before sitting nexttome.‘Doyouwantabite?’‘Goonthen,’shesaid,and

openedhermouthwide.Stillchewing, sheheldupher leftindex finger. ‘Does that lookswollentoyou?’

‘Maybe.’‘What do you think I’ve

done?’‘Noidea.’She rolled her eyes. ‘Roz,

at least pretend to be a littleinterested. I know you haveto deal with this all day, butI’m worried. Could it bearthritis?’‘You’ve probably strained

itpickingupasuitcase.’‘So you don’t think I

shouldgoforbloodtests?’

‘No.’‘Butwhatifitisarthritis?’‘It won’t be. But if it’ll

make you feel better, go forthe tests. I wouldn’t bother,though. If it still hurts in aweek,’ I said wearily, ‘I’lllookatit.’Pacified, Petra let her full

weightfallagainst thebench,tilting her face towards thesun,beforeexhalinglongandhard. ‘God, I feel like I’vebeen cooped up for ever in

that office. It’s so nice to beout.’‘You’ve only been back a

day.’‘Yes, but you want to see

all the crap they’ve left forme. They do nothing whenI’m not there.Honestly, theyjust throw everything on tomydeskwithnothoughtastohowI’mgoingtogetthroughit.’Petra worked three

mornings and one full day a

weekas the school secretary.The size of the place didn’twarrant a full-time position.To listen to her, you’d beunder the impression that theplacewouldfalldownaroundthemwithouthertheretorunitproperly.‘DidClarahaveanicetime

withLiz?’Iasked.LizwasVince’ssister.She

was single, again.Relationship afterrelationship seemed to fizzle

out, leaving the poorwomanwounded and bewildered,with no clear idea what shewasdoingwrong.Keeping her face angled

towardsthesun,Petrashiftedin her seat. ‘Iwanted to talkto you about that,’ she said,her words taking on a sharptone.‘ClarasaysthatLizhasbeenbullyingher.’‘Bullying?’‘Well, perhaps bullying’s

too strong a word,’ she

conceded, ‘but she has beenpicking on her. How do youthink I should broach thesubjectwithLiz?’‘Perhaps Clara’s

exaggerating?’ I suggested,thinking of Vince’s gentlesister,whodotedonhernieceand who I’d never oncewitnessed being unkind toanyone.Calledtomindalsowasthe

broodingnatureofClara,whoprotestedifshefeltoutshined

or excluded, even in aminorway. Petra would feel herdaughter’s hurt, oftenlaunching a direct attack ontheperpetratorasaresult.This mindset made Petra

unwaveringly fair whendealing with groups ofchildren. Which I admired –everyone was included,everyone invited. But if herownchildwasshunned?Woebetide. She’d be out gunningforwhoeverwasresponsible.

‘I’m sure you’d havesomething to say if Georgewasbeingbullied,’Petrasaid.‘You know Iwould.But I

thinkyoushouldcheckagainwith Clara first before yourisk offending Liz. She’s asweet woman, Petra, I can’timagine she would evendreamof—’‘Okay,okay, let’sdrop it,’

shesaidabruptly,whenitwasclear I wasn’t going to givehertheoutragedresponseshe

washopingfor.Oh dear. Liz was in for a

roasting.‘Sowhathaveyoubeenup

tosinceI’vebeenaway?’sheasked,nowbrightly.‘Notalot.’‘Seenanyone?’‘Not really. Work and

morework.’She turned to face me,

lifting her sunglasses andgiving a small, sympatheticsmile. ‘Vince let it slip that

money was tight again,’ shesaidcarefully.‘Money’salwaystight.’‘Howbadisitthistime?’‘I’llmanage.’Silence.‘It’sjust—’Petrasaid,and

stopped. She blinked hard acoupleoftimesandIthoughtfor a moment she wouldn’tactuallygowhereIknewshewasgoingwiththis.Ultimately,shewasunable

to restrain what she had to

say. ‘It’s just that I reallydon’t want a repeat of lasttime,Roz.’‘Don’tworry,itwon’tbe.’‘That’s the thing,’ she

replied.‘Iamworried.’‘Youneedn’tbe.’‘You’vesaidthatbefore.’‘Leaveit,Petra.’Shedroppedherglasses to

coverher eyes and fell silentas we watched a youngbeardedguythrowsticksintothe lake for his retriever. He

wore an olive-green T-shirt,which hung loose around hislanky frame, and a pair ofmatching olive trousers. Theuniformofatreesurgeon.Atone point the dripping doghurtled out of the waterstraight towards a pug beingled along thepath a few feetin frontofus.Petra flinched,grippingtheseatofthebenchwith both hands. One fastshake from the retriever andwe’dbesoaked.

‘Soyou’venotaskedthemthen?’ Petra said, her wordscasual, said in a way thatbelied just howmuchweighttheycarried.‘No.’Icouldfeelthestaticinthe

air.A quick sideways glancetowards Petra revealed shewasrigidwithtension,anditwas clear what this meetingwasreallyabout.‘Because I’d rather you

askedme for money than it

cometothatagain,’shesaid.‘Itwon’tcometothat.’Andshenodded.‘Okay,’shesaidfinally.‘If

you say so. I suppose I’llhavetotakeyourwordforit.’

When I first began huntingfor property from which torun my physiotherapypractice,itwasevidentprettyquickly that it was going tobe slimpickings.Therewerenoshort-termleasesorwhatI

would consider fair rentalagreements. Property was inhighdemandandsowasatapremium. Landlords aroundWindermere and Bownesswere tying tenants up in ten-year leases, the majority ofthe buildings neededextensive external andinternal maintenance; somewere even without heating. Ineeded a place with twotreatment rooms, a waitingarea,atoilet(allpreferablyat

groundlevel,forpatientswhohad difficulty walking) andwithin easy reach ofsomewheretopark.Suchaplacedidnot exist,

anditwasatthispoint,whenI was considering giving upon the dream and eitherstaying with the NHS orrenting cheaper premises inKendal, that my dad advisedme to buy. Naturally, theprices were extortionate, thebusiness rates cruel, but my

main problem was that Iwasn’t eligible for acommercial propertymortgageunlessIhadafortyper cent deposit. Which Ididn’t.Not wanting to see me

walk away from my vision,my parents came to me oneevening, with the intent ofwithdrawing money fromtheir savings to invest in thepractice.Propertypriceswerestill rising, interest rates on

savings were low, and theydecidedthat theirmoneywassafer in bricks and mortarrather thanthebankandtheycould even see a greaterreturnonit.They loanedmeahundred

and ten thousand pounds.Money they’d accrued fromdownsizingtoatwo-bedroombungalow,moneythatwastosupplement their pensionswhen the time came. And Iborrowed the remaining two

hundred and forty thousandfromthebank.AfterWinston’s wage cut,

his womanizing, the loss ofthebaby,thecreditcardsandhissubsequentdeparturefromour home, my mind wasn’texactlyon the job. I couldn’tmake the payments on boththemortgageon thebusinessandtheoneonourhouse,andIlostitall.The properties were

repossessedbythebank.And

becauseIwastooashamed,Ididn’t tell anyone about theextentofthemessuntilitwastoolateandtherewasnotimefor a quick sale at a much-reduced price – meaning myparents ended up withnothing, when they couldhaveperhapssalvagedatleastsomeoftheirmoney.WhatIshouldhavedoneat

that point was declarebankruptcy – wipe outWinston’s loan and the

credit-card debt. But acombination of pride andworry about being turneddown for a mortgage in thefuturemeant I couldn’tbringmyselftodoit.Just before retirement, and

aftermuchsoulsearching,myparentsputtheirbungalowonthe market and moved toSilloth–overanhour’sdriveaway,inacheaperpartofthecounty–toensuretheycouldlive out their years with

adequatemoney.Our family became

fractured.Sickwithshame,Ibecame

the culpable person everyonenowknewmetobe:nottobetrustedwithmoney,nottobegiven any real responsibility,looked upon with acombination of disdain andpity.And Petra lost her

babysitters. Which was whattoday’s dig at Lizwas really

about. If you didn’t lose allthat money, I wouldn’t havetomakedowithVince’ssister…And so it went on. We

dancedaround the issuewithnormalsisterlychitchat,Petracovering her annoyance anddisappointment in the bestway she knew how, but,ultimately, all roads ledbackto this:How could you havesabotaged our parents’ livesinthatway?

IwishIhadtheanswer.Petragaveasmallshudder

asthoughtoridherselfofthenegative energy thatthreatened to take hold.‘Lecture over,’ she said, andplaced her hand on top ofmine. ‘Listen, we’re goingout to dinner with Scott andNadineonSaturday–nothingflash–whydon’tyoucome?Mytreat.’‘No,I…Ihaveto—’Petraturnedtofacemeand

frowned. ‘What do you havetodo? It’snotyourweekendtohaveGeorge,isit?’‘No,butI…’I couldn’t think fast

enough. Words escaped me.Lies escaped me. There wasnoway I could sit through adinnerwithScottandNadineafter spending the whole ofFridaynightwithScott.‘Roz?’ she prompted.

‘What’s going on? Are youseeingsomeone?’

‘No,’ I said quickly, andimmediatelyrealizedIshouldhave said yes. A pretendrelationship would be theperfectfoilinthisinstance.Petra, bewildered, shook

her head, before giving myhandasqueeze.‘Iknowwhatthis is about,’ she said. ‘Andit’s high time you got overthis inferiority thing, Roz.You can’t keep thinking ofyourself as worthless likethis. Just because Scott and

Nadine are wealthy doesn’tmean they won’t want tospendtimewithyou.They’renot like that. They don’tjudge the way other peopledo.’I stared down at our

claspedhands,unabletobearlookingatmysister.‘Pleasecome,’shepressed.

‘I know you’ll enjoy it. I’dloveyoutobethere,andyounevergetoutforanicemeal.Goon.’

Iwasabout tospeakwhenshecutmeoff.‘Roz,’shesaidseriously,‘I

will take it as a personalinsultifyoudon’t.’

15

LIKE A LOT of criminals, itwasn’t the crime itself thatwas problematic, rather, itwaswhattodowiththecash.Inanagewheneverything

is digitized, from earnings todental appointments, clearing

debts with freshly mintedtwenty-pound notes was notas straightforward as I firstthought. In fact, it wasn’tstraightforwardatall.I had assumed I could

deposit the four thousandScott paid me directly intomy bank account and, fromthere, I could pay my rentarrears.Butno.Shortly after making the

deposit I received a phone

call from my bank,apologetic, but firmnonetheless, requiringverification of the origin ofthecashdeposited.Theywerenow obligated to check onlarge cash withdrawals anddeposits in the fight againstfraud.Thinkingonmyfeet,Iexplainedthatthemoneywasa loan from my parents tohelpmeoutofafinancialfix,but it was quickly apparentthatIwouldnotbeabletouse

thisexcuseonaregularbasis.If ever again. Apart fromanything else, Her Majesty’sRevenue andCustomswouldalsowant toknowthesourceofanyfurtherdeposits.What I thoughtwas a fail-

safeway toearnmywayoutofdebtsuddenlywasn’t.Andit got me wondering, justexactlyhowdidthoseescortsoperating from their sparebedrooms in theirsemidetached houses ‘show’

themoney they earned?Youcan’t runahomeonnothing.Either they were claimingbenefits and the cashsupplementedtheirincomeorelse they listed theiroccupations as somethingotherthan‘prostitute’ontheirtax returns. ‘Masseuse’,perhaps.I had an appointmentwith

Scott thatevening,asGeorgewas to be picked up directlyfrom after-school club by

Winston (the internationalman of business was nowback in the country, itappeared),soIhadtherestoftheafternoontocomeupwitha way of accepting paymentfor my services that didn’tarouse suspicion. It seemedalmostunfair.Iwasdoingmyutmost to pay off my debts,but the law said I wasn’tallowedtodoitinthisway.Ithought about the drugdealers that commonly

featured on Traffic Cops,their pimped-up RangeRovers with the blacked-outwindows, andwonderedhowthey got away with it(assuming drugs, likeescorting, was amostly cashbusiness).Asit turnedout,Scottwas

experiencing similardifficulties.AndtomakesureI didn’t turn onmy heel andleave mid-date when Idiscovered he was without a

satchel full of cash, hemadean impromptu call at theclinic to discuss ourarrangement,ouroptions andtoputanewproposaltome.It would be this decision,

within the list of baddecisions, that would sendourlivesontheroller-coastertrajectory thatwas to changeeverything.Earlier, I had dropped

Georgeatschoolwithasmallrucksack containing the

essential toys and bits andpieces for his stay with hisdad. Winston, thoughincompetent in paying mechildsupport,wasfairlygoodat providing enough clothes,pyjamasandgamesconsoles.And because Dylis suppliedthree squaremealsadayanda constant offering of cleanlaundry, I never worriedGeorge was going withoutwhen he stayed over there.George and Winston would

rollick around, followingtheir noses into adventures,with none of the ties orresponsibilities that anchoredmostparentstotheirhomesatthe weekends. I imagined itwas like staying with yourfavourite carefree bohemianuncle, and aweekend of thiswas probably just whatGeorge needed, after theupheaval following thebailiff’svisitandthemeetingwiththeheadteacher.

After speaking toWinstonat length about George’sstealing, Winston finallyadmitted that George hadstolen fromhismothera fewtimes as well. When I’dblown my top at him forkeeping it from me, hisresponsewas‘Hejustwantedadog,Roz.Don’tbesohardonhim.’‘Well,hecan’thaveadog,

can he? He knows he can’thave a dog while we’re in

rentedaccommodation.’Ididn’tsticktheknifeinas

Imight.Didn’tdragupthatitwas Winston’s fault that thedog had gone in the firstplace. Because it waspointless. Not because wewere past tit for tat butbecause it would be lost onWinston. He would no moremaketheconnectionbetweenhis infidelity and George’sdogless state than he wouldbetween it and my

moonlighting for extra cash.As far as Winston wasconcerned, his behaviourdidn’thaverepercussions.Winston told me he’d

found over fifty poundsstuffed inside George’spillowcase – which meanthe’d been at it for far longerthananyofussuspected.Andprobably meant he’d thievedfrom Petra andVincent on anumber of occasions aswell.Idecidedtokeepthatpieceof

information to myself fornow, confident that mywarning to George of Nodogs ever again was enoughof a deterrent against hisstealinginthefuture.Itwasaround11a.m.when

IheardthetelltaleroaroftheFerrari outside in the carpark.Peculiar,isn’tit,howanelderly woman over-revvingherFiatPanda’s900ccengineismocked heartily by peoplebut doing the exact same

thing in a performance carcommandsgeneralrespect?I could hear Wayne

tripping over his feet,scramblingtoget tothefrontdoor to greet Scott, inexpectation of another ridethrough the Lyth Valley.ScotthadtoleratedWayne,hetold me, to get to me. He’dgiven him a loop ofcountryside, riding throughWinster, taking a right toStrawberry Bank, over

Gummer’s Howe and finallyspeeding north along theeastern shore ofWindermerebefore depositing Waynebackattheclinic.Somewhereduring the twenty-minutejourney Scott reported thatWayne began to speakdifferently, changing thecadence and rhythm of hiswords to match that ofJeremy Clarkson. When I’dscoffed at this, ridiculedWayne, Scott told me it

happened with every manwhorodewithhim.Itwasanunconscious thing, and theyreally didn’t know theyweredoingit.Rather than wait for

Wayne’sknockonthedoor,Ipopped my head out. ThepatientIwaswithwasprone,stippled with acupunctureneedles, and could be leftalone for a few minutes.Patients were often reluctantto continue the conversation

with needles stuck in theirhead. I suppose theyworriedthat any movement at allmight result in their brainbeingskewered.Notpossible,but Iwouldn’t discharge thisinformation readily, as Ienjoyed the brief snatches ofsilenceitafforded.The clinic door was wide

open, with Wayne standingon the threshold, his backtowards me. We’d had amonsoon-like downpour that

morning, the rainrhythmically thrumming onthe roof, like a marchingmilitary band. The delicate,desiccated scents of summerthat for the past few weekshad been carried on thebreeze were now in vapourform.And all at once the airhad become dense, sicklysweetandoverbearing.Scott must have dawdled

inside the car, as itwas onlynowthatIheardthecardoor

slam, followed by Wayneclapping his hands together,greeting Scott in a way thatwas meant to be blokey butsoundedsycophantic.Seeingme peer out of the

treatmentroom,Scottsaidheneeded to speak to me as amatter of great urgency and,whereWaynewouldnodoubtusually ignorea request suchasthisfromapatient–tellingthemIcouldnotbedisturbed,they must make an

appointment – he watchedhelplesslyasIgesturedacrossthe reception area to thenutritionist’s room, which Iknewtobeempty.Itwouldbe thefirst timeI

would witness Scott withouthis usual charmingdemeanour, with this rebuffofsomeonehehadnofurtherusefor.Iwassurprisedbytheease with which he movedpast Wayne, brieflyacknowledging his presence

but giving him no furtherattention, as though they hadnever had even aconversation in their lives.Wayne looked taken aback.Hewas perplexed by Scott’ssnubanddidn’tknowwhattomakeofit.Thenutritionist’sroomhad

been used that day as adumping ground for a largedeliveryofcouchrolls,boxesof tissues and toilet rolls,readyforWaynetosortout.

‘We have a problem,’beganScott.‘How’stheelbowdoing?’I

asked in an over-loud voice,pushingthedoorclosed.ButIneglected to close itcompletely, my thinkingbeing that if I were to shutmyself away with Scott itmight arouse suspicion thattherewassomethingbetweenus. Best to appear relaxed.Best to appear as though wewerediscussinghiselbow,so

there was no need for totalprivacy.Iturned,andScottshotme

alookasthoughtosay,Fuckthe elbow. Then he strodeacrosstheroom,tookmyfaceinhishandsandkissedme.‘Don’t,’Isaid,aghast.‘Not

here.’Hedidn’tapologize.‘What sort of problem?’ I

asked, instantly feeling thatqueasydreadthatcomesfromthe threat of discovery. ‘Is it

Nadine?’Heshookhishead.He seemed agitated and

edgy,nottheScottIwasusedto, and I wondered what ithadtakentounsettlehimso.‘It’s money,’ he said. ‘I

can’traisethemoney.’I took a step back. ‘You

can’t raise four thousandpounds?’Thatseemedunlikely.‘Ican’traisefourthousand

pounds in cash. Not right

now,anyway.’‘Ah,’Isaid,‘Ithought…’He smiled. ‘No, I’m not

quitethatstrapped.’‘Okay, so what happens

now?’‘Ihaveanidea,butI’mnot

surehowyou’llfeelaboutit.’‘Tryme,’Isaid.‘Well,ifIcontinuetodraw

cash from the business, itwon’t go unnoticed. Theaccountant’sgoingtowanttoknow what it’s for and,

though I think I can trust theguy, I don’t really want himpokingaround.Plus,hiswifeand Nadine are friends. Andas much as he likes topromise total confidentiality,we all know everyoneconfidesintheirwives.’‘Is tonight still going

ahead?’Iasked.‘That depends on you. I

wouldverymuchlikeitto,infact,’andhepaused,reachingout and running a finger

along my jawline. ‘I think Imay have a solution. But itmeans you’ll have to wait ashortwhileforyourmoney.’‘Howlong?’‘Afewdays.’‘Oh.’‘I realize you need it fast,

I’m aware of that. But thinkabout it: you can’t hide thatcash from the Revenue.They’ll catch up with youeventually andwant to knowhow you came by it. And

whentheydothat,dependingon how you handle yourself,they’ll come sticking theirnose into my business, Roz,and I just can’t take thatchance.’‘Okay,’ I conceded, ‘so

whatdoyousuggest?’‘You call yourself a

consultant.’‘Aconsultantinwhat?’‘Anythingyou like.Really

doesn’t matter. What’simportantisthatyoucomeup

with something credible,something you can invoicemy company for, and we’llcredit your account withintwenty-four hours. I wasthinking something along thelines of ergonomics, but ifyou can come up withanythingbetter,I’mallears.’‘Ergonomicswouldwork.’‘Thesooneryouprovidean

invoice, the sooner you’ll bepaid,’hesaid.‘Youcouldsayyouadviseusondeskheight,

back support, that kind ofthing,yes?’‘Icoulddothat.’‘And you’re okay about

tonight?’heaskedtentatively.‘Youmeanaboutnotbeing

paid?’Henodded.‘It’sunexpected,soIcan’t

say I’m totally okay with it,butIdohavealittlebreathingspaceafteryourlastpayment.I don’t want to compromiseour arrangement though, so

… Do you still want thewholenight?’‘Ofcourse,’hesaid.‘We’ll

meetatseven?’‘Seven.’‘I’llgo then,’hesaid. ‘Let

yougetbacktoit.’Hemovedtowards the door, pulled itopenand turnedbackaroundto face me. ‘Thank you,’ hesaid, ‘thanks forunderstanding.’I lifted my hand to bid

Scott goodbye and instantly

froze. Beyond him, Waynewasatthewatercooler.Again, Scott didn’t

acknowledge him as hepassed.Onlythistimetherewasno

sign of hurt or rejection inWayne’s eyes. Rather, hebegantowhistle.Hefilledhiscup,whistling

a jaunty, made-up tune,beforeflashingmeaknowingsmile.

16

AREN’TPEOPLESURPRISING?I have always had a

particularfascinationwiththeconceptofpeckingorder.Foreach person in any givensituationthereisahierarchy–whether they are aware of it

ornot.Often it’s an invisible

dance we do around eachother. Where do I fit withyou?How important am I inyourlife?Generally, though, we

knowwherewefit.Weknowwhere we are on theimportance scale, and webehave accordingly.We tendto sit in our allotted spaces,uncomplaining, not daring tomove out, not daring to ask

formoreforfearofarebuttal.So when, in the late

afternoon,Waynehitmewiththenewsthathewantedinonthe arrangement, well,understandably, I laughed inhis face at thepreposterousnessofit.When I saw that he was

actuallyserious,Isaid,‘Whatarrangement?’ and he said,‘Don’tinsultme,Roz.’Here’s what I thought he

was proposing: A cut of my

earnings to keep quiet. Athousandpoundsorsotoholdhis tongue, not to reveal thetrue nature of my businesswith Scott, to his wife, myemployers, the widercommunity.Butitwasn’tthat.‘I want a night with you,’

Waynesaidearnestly,andmymouthdroppedopen.‘Wayne,’Ibegan,‘thereis

a difference … a very bigdifferencewithwhatgoeson

between—’‘There’snodifference,’he

saidsimply.Apause.‘From what I could make

out from that conversationyou had earlier,’ he said,gesturing to the nutritionist’sroom, ‘Scott Elias is payingyou. He’s paying you asubstantial amount of moneyfor your services. Or have Imisunderstood?’Ididn’tdenyit.Iwantedto

seewherehewasgoingwiththis.‘Iwouldlikethesame,’he

said.I regarded him, trying not

to show my outrage.‘Wayne,’ I said carefully, ‘Idon’twanttodothat.’‘Roz,’ he replied, ‘I don’t

thinkyouhaveachoice,’andhe motioned towards thecomputer.‘Remember the anomaly I

pointed out to you,’ he said,

gesturingtothescreen.Evidently, I was not

allowed to look as, when Icraned my neck to see, heminimizedthepage.‘Ananomalywith?’‘Theaccounts,’hesaid.‘Yes. And you’re telling

methisnowbecause…?’‘It’s been brought to my

attention by the accountantsat HQ,’ he said, ‘that thisparticular clinic has been thevictim of – shall we say? –

the misappropriation offunds.’HQ, Iwas thinking, trying

not to scoff at the sillyofficiousness of his tone,when it hit me what he wasreallysaying.‘Stealing?’Iasked.‘It certainly looks that

way.’‘But there’s nothing to

steal,’ I protested. ‘We don’tstockanything…Nothingofanyuseanyhow.’

I was thinking about theteabags and toilet rolls I’dtaken recently, wondering ifhecouldbereferringtothose.But thenIput thatoutofmyhead because surely nobodywas spending their hoursquantifyingnormalusage?‘Howdoesthisaffectme?’

Isaideventually.‘Across the ten clinics –

and that includes more thanfiftyclinicians–youhavethehighest patient cancellation

rate.’‘But I have the highest

number of patients,’ Ireasoned. ‘The number ofcancellations is bound to behigher.It’sproportional.’‘Apparently not. The

accountantsatHQhavedonean audit, and your rate ofmissed appointments is fivetimes higher than anyoneelse’s.What’smore,nowthatI’ve had a chance to look atthe data more closely, those

missed appointments alltendedtocoincidewithwhenI was absent from the clinicmyself.’Iswallowed.‘And they are all patients

who usually pay in cash,’ headded.‘Careful what you’re

suggestingthere,Wayne.’Istaredathimhard.Hestaredback.‘Of course, HQ might be

willing to overlook any

misdemeanour thatmayhavetaken place,’ he saidcarefully. ‘Perhaps I couldpersuadethemtooverlookit,ifyoucatchmydrift.’‘Youhavenoevidence.No

evidence at all, Wayne, thatthis has anything to do withme.’And he then proceeded to

showme the ‘evidence’ he’dbeen collecting over the lastweekorso.The series of thefts from

the clinic, and my part inthem, was irrefutable, heexplained. He’d gone so faras to contact the patients I’dmarked down as absent,asking if they could confirmor deny their presence at theclinic at the allotted times.Mostwereonly toohappy tooblige, flicking back throughtheir diaries, their wallcalendars,ashedidn’tinformthemwhyhewantedtoknow,just that there had been a

problem with thecomputerized diary systemandheneeded to re-enter theinformation.‘What if I refuse what

you’re proposing?’ I said toWayne.‘ThenIgotothepolice.’‘Youwoulddothat?’‘Tell mewhy I shouldn’t?

You’ve been ripping thecompany off. And not onlythat, you now have thissidelinegoing,thatforallwe

know could be going onbehindthecloseddoorof thetreatmentroom—’‘Thathasneverhappened.’‘We don’t know that,

though,dowe?Thinkhowitwould look, Roz. Think howit would look if it came outthat you were chargingpeople for sex, as well aspurloining the takings?Patients wouldn’t come hereany more. It would be anunviablebusiness.Andwitha

purpose-designed clinic suchasthis, theownerssinkinginhundreds of thousands ininvestment, you can be surethey would pursue you witheverything they’vegot.Theirreputation as a healthcareproviderisontheline.’‘Please don’t go to the

police.’‘Iwon’t,’hesaid.‘DoasI

ask,andIgiveyoumywordIwon’tgotothepolice.I’lltellno one. You know I’ve

always been fond of you,Roz. I’ll keep it tomyself, Ipromise.’I exhaled, closedmy eyes.

Triedtothink.Hehadme, and I couldn’t

come upwith away out. I’dpocketed that cash when Iwas desperate. Trulydesperate. It wasn’t much.Thirty-five pounds here andthere. But it was theft,nonetheless.There were no good

options; just one bad optionslightlyworse than theother.And you know what youshould do. Your gut isscreamingat you tobackup.Reverse. Come clean nowandtakethehitbeforethingsget really out of control.Butyou don’t, because you areweak. And your habit oftaking the less bad option iswhatgotyouherein thefirstplace.‘Howwill you explain the

loss of takings?’ I askedeventually. ‘I assume theAccountsdepartmentwillstillwant to know where thatmoneyhasgone.’Wayne made a dismissive

gesture. ‘I’ll blame thecleaner who left a fortnightago. I’ll tell them I have nodirectevidence,butItrustthestaff I’ve got implicitly, andcan’t see who else it couldhave been. Of course, nowthat the thievinghasstopped,

thatwillallmakesense.’Hewaitedformyreaction.

Wettedhislips.‘Please,’ I said, appealing

to him with one last-ditchattempt, ‘don’t do this. It’sludicrous.’‘Isit?’‘You know it is. Please,

Wayne,don’tmakemebeg.’Andhelaidbothpalmsflat

onthedeskbeforelettingoutalong,exasperatedbreath.‘Am I that repulsive?’ he

asked.‘No.’(Yes.)‘Is it so absurd that I

shouldaskthisofyou?’I didn’t answer. My eyes

pricked with tears as thescene of what he wasadvocating played out in mymind.Therewasnoway.There was absolutely no

way I could go throughwiththis.‘You appreciate it’s game

over for you now,’ hewhispered as a patient exitedMagdalena’sroom.‘Youwillnever work again. You’llnever be allowed nearpatientsagain.’Hehandedmeatissue.‘I’d think long and hard

aboutthisbeforerejectingmyoffer,Roz.’

17

I HAD JUST steppedout of theshower,wrappedmy head ina towel and slipped on mybathrobe, when I heardknockingonthefrontdoor.Opening it, I saw my

visitor had a bottle of

champagneinonehandandalarge punnet of ripestrawberriesintheother.‘You’d better come in,

Celia,’Itoldher.She stepped inside and

began casting around thenakedroom.Taking in the bare walls,

the bare floor, she said, ‘Idon’tknowhowyoulivelikethis,’ her Liverpool accentsounding more pronouncedthan usual. ‘I really don’t.’

Then she asked, ‘Is Georgewithhisdad?’AndI toldherhe was, told her he wasstaying with Winston untilSunday evening, and shetrottedofftofindacoupleofglasses.Oddly, the champagne

flutes were one of the fewthings the bailiffs hadn’tseized. I leaned against thedoorframe,watchingasCeliabustled about the kitchen,unable to suppress a smile

whensheputtheteatoweltoher nose to check that itwasclean, before using it to gainsomepurchaseon the lodgedcork.‘What’s the occasion?’ I

said as she poured first intooneglassandthentheother.‘Occasion?’sheasked.‘Do

we need one?’ She handedmeaglass.‘Cheers,’shesaid.Then she admitted that shehad watched me from herbedroom window earlier on

myway in from the car, andit seemed as though I coulddo with some cheering up.‘Youlooklikeyou’vegottheweight of the world on yourshoulders.’‘Just a few problems at

work.’‘Ooh, that reminds me,’

she said, slipping off one ofher sandals, ‘Dennis hasdevelopedapain,righthere.’Shepointedtothefleshypartontheundersideofherheel.

‘Does it hurt him in themorningwhenhegetsoutofbed?’Iasked.‘Like a knife!’ she

exclaimed. ‘He can hardlywalk.’‘Plantar fasciitis.’ I

scribbled the name of theorthopaedic insoles Irecommend on a scrap ofpaper. ‘PickhimupapairofthosefromBoots,’Isaid.‘I’lltake a look at it over theweekend.’

Celia frowned as she readthe note. She thought theinsoles would be a waste oftime.‘They work,’ I told her

firmly.She folded the note, put it

inherpocketandreachedforher glass. ‘Why don’t youcome for dinner?’ she said.‘I’vegot some lovelyhalibutand I’ve donewhat I alwaysdoandboughtenoughforsix.You can do Dennis’s foot,

andI’ll—’‘Ican’t.’She put her drink down.

‘Whycan’tyou?’‘I’mmeetingsomeone.’‘Who?’ she said, her eyes

suddenlybrightwithinterest.Since we’d become

neighbours, Celia had tried,on numerous occasions andwithoutsuccess,tosetmeupwith a selection of eligiblemen.A couple of themwerethesonsofherreading-group

friends. Another was thebrotherofherpicture framer.Another, the nephew of theguy that came to clean heroven once amonth. They alllookedgoodonpaper.ButasI tried to impress on Celia,when someone said theycouldn’tunderstandwhytheirson/brother/nephew had beensingleforaslongastheyhad,therewasstillusuallyagoodreason.‘The good ones are

snapped up quickly,’ I toldher.‘Then why have you not

beensnappedup?’‘Imakebadchoices.’‘Maybeyou’retoopicky.’‘Maybe,’ I said.And I left

itatthat.But, honestly, you should

have seen thesemen. I don’twanttobecruel,butyouhadtowonderhowtheymanagedtotietheirownshoelacesandget out of the house each

morning.‘Don’t get excited,’ I told

Celia now as she waited forme to elaborate. ‘This is justsomebody I know throughwork.It’snotserious.’Celia made a face. ‘Your

generation.’ She spatcontemptuously. ‘How canromancenotbeserious?Andwhat does that even mean?You see these silly men onthe television saying theydon’t want to settle down,

saying they want no-stringsrelationships, and I say toDennis, “What fool of awoman would put up withsomething like that?” GoodLord,foralltheygetoutofit,they may as well go on thegame.’ She paused, musingon this fact as she finishedherdrink.Shaking her head, she

added, ‘Oldest job in theworld.’‘Thatso,’Ireplied.

AnhourlaterIwasinthecar,headingnorth.During the trip, all I could

thinkofwasWayne.Iwassobloody angry. Angry withhim. Angry with myself. IfI’d swallowed my pride andasked Petra for a little cashwhen I needed it, I wouldn’tfindmyself inthisposition.Inegotiatedtheslipperycurvesalong Rydal Water and mystomach began to cramp atthe thought of him. Wayne

hadcorneredmeattheendofthe day when the clinic wasemptiedofpatientsand therewas only Gary left, catchingup on notes, as he did eachday. Wayne asked if I’dreachedadecision.As he waited for me to

speakheheldhismouthopenslightly, something he oftendidwhenconcentrating,andIbecame transfixed by hislarge tongue. It was swollenandcoveredinathick,furred

white coating – indicative ofa chronic yeast infection, Isuspected.‘Sinceyou’regivingmeno

way out of this, I’ll do ittomorrowevening,’Isnappedat him. By then I was lividthat he’d put me in thesituation, and I didn’t try tohideit.‘Oh,’ he replied brightly.

‘Assoonasthat?’Thestupidbastardwasflattered.Staring at his tongue, I

refrained from saying that Ihad no choice but to get itoveranddonewith.That if Iallowed myself time to stewontheideaIwassuretobackout and, well, therepercussions of not doing itat all, he’d made very clearearlier.‘Georgeiswithhisdadfor

theweekend,’Itoldhim.‘Soit’s either tomorrow or in afortnight’stime.’‘Tomorrow,’ he replied

quickly. ‘Yes, tomorrowwould suit me perfectly,actually, because I have acouple of busy weekendsplannedlaterinthemonth,infact…’He then proceeded to give

me a list of activities thatconstituted his tedious littlelife.When he had finished I’d

stared at him for a moment,still totally shocked that hewascapableofthisblackmail.

Wayne and I had always gotalong pretty well. Sure, hehad his annoying traits: hisjokes were mostly crap, andhe could take his role in theclinic a little too seriously.But he’d been consistentlykind to me.We’d been kindto each other. I couldn’tbelieve this volte-face. I feltbetrayed.ItriedtoputWayneoutof

myhead fornow,as Ididn’twant to arrive for Scott in a

state of fractious agitation.Forsomeonewhohadknownme for such a brief time,Scott had an uncanny abilityto intuit what I was feeling,and I knew it would be adisastrouserrortoinformhimofWayne’sdemands.To Scott, Wayne was a

pointless individual whodidn’t even warrant acourteous nod. That muchwas evident from hisbehaviourthatafternoon,soI

didn’t need to ruminate forlong over whether to tellScott about Wayne’sintention.Firstly, even though Scott

had not aired this view, Iknew that, while he waspayingme,Iwashis.Andhisalone. The way he’ddescribed the ugliness of theconveyor-beltsexwaslesstodo with the girls themselvesand more to do with hisimagining the series of

revolting lowlifes that hadbeentherebeforehim.Sotherewasthat.But also, in neglecting to

inform Scott, I wasconsidering that vaingloriousstateyoufindyourselfinafterthe person you have sleptwith sleeps with someoneelse.Apersonyoudeemtobebelowyou.Andalthoughyoumay have liked the personyou first had sex withperfectly well, you couldn’t

now repeat it, on account offeeling insulted by themputting you in the samecategory as the subsequentpartner. It was humiliating.Anyway, all this to say itwould not be wise to informScott of tomorrow’s agendawith Wayne. I couldn’t riskhimendingourarrangement.AndofcourseIstillneeded

the money to pay off thecreditcards.I would deal with the

Wayne issue tomorrow. Fornow, I had topreparemyselffor the night ahead. So Iswitchedontheradio,fiddledabout until I found a stationplayingamindlesstrackwitha heavy bass, and when itcame time I overtook a pairof cyclists on a blind corner,which gave me a jolt ofadrenalin,thekickthatcomesfrom a moment ofrecklessness, something Ineeded to summon Roz the

Sexy Plaything and banishRoztheTotalShambles.

Scott was waiting for me onthe hotel balcony. He’dinstructed Housekeeping todry off the floor andfurniture, now that the rainhadcleared,sowecoulddinealone outside, overlookingGrasmere.Ihadgonedirectlyto the room upon arrival.Scott had texted the numberearlierandgavemedirections

soIwouldn’thavetostopbyreception. He had taken pre-dinner drinks with hisaccountant and the firm’ssolicitor, explaining toNadine that he would beaway for the night, as themeetingwouldrunonintotheearly hours. Then he’d leftthetwomeninthebarwithatwelve hundred pound bottleof cognac, telling them hewas sorry, but he would bebowing out early on account

of a full session’s drinkingscheduled for Carlisle Racesthefollowingday.‘Sorry I’m a bit late,’ I

said.‘Traffic.’Scott brushed it off and

saidnottoworry.Heheldthedoor wide and I walked in,dropping my bag by thearmchair. This room wastraditional.The typeof rooman older couple might findpleasing should they spendChristmas in Grasmere. The

decor was busy: goldwallpaper covered with liliesand heavy crimson curtains.Thefixtureswereeitherbrassorgoldand thefurniturewassolidoak.Scott and I regarded each

other,notspeaking.He gave a faint half-smile

and,thoughIknewhewantedto be here – knew heprobablyneeded tobehere–itwasplainbyhisexpressionhe had other things on his

mind.This didn’t fall into the

categoryofSecondDate inatraditional way, but it didbear some of the hallmarks.While Scott was freshlyshowered and clean-shaven,while he had that jitterytension thatcamefrombeingalonewithanewwoman,thebrightglintof inquisitivenesswas missing from his eyes.We’d already had sex. Themystique was gone. Work,

real life, would now crowdhis thoughts. And I guessedthat, should we engage inpolite conversation overdinner, his mind would beelsewhere.Iglancedthroughtheopen

doorofthebalcony.Thetablewas set, complete withcandles,abottleofsomethingonice.‘Wouldyoupreferwewentstraighttobed?’Iaskedhim.A little taken aback, he

gave a small cough andwidened his eyes. Then hesaid,‘Wouldyoumind?’‘Not at all. We can dine

later.’So we did. This time, he

stayedfullydressedand tookme from behind in thebathroom. I saw by hisexpression that he wantedfast,sluttysex,soIremainedin my heels, facing themirror, while he pulled myknickers to one side and

fuckedmelikeIimaginedheused to fuck Nadine – backwhenshewasstillintoit.Afterwards,we sat outside

beneaththegasheater,astheair had chilled (it was nowafter nine), and he thankedmewithwhatseemedtobeasense of wonder foranticipatinghisneeds.‘It’s not rocket science,’ I

replied, but to be honest I’ddoneitformyselfasmuchasScott. Wayne was still

looming heavily at theforefrontofmythoughts,anditwas as good away as anytogetridofhim.Scott remained dressed in

his navy suit but he’d askedthat I wear just myunderwear,with a hotel robearoundme,whileweate.‘You look beautiful,’ he

toldme.‘How’sthecrab?’‘Good.’‘IwishI’dordereditnow.’‘Havesome,’Isaid,andhe

told me to help myself to arazor clam. ‘Thanks,’ Ireplied, ‘but I’m not keen.’Thetruthwas,I’dnevertriedone. But on first viewing Icouldn’tshaketheimageofatapeworm, pickled informaldehyde, which hadrestedonadustyshelf in thebiology lab at school yearupon year. Petra had beenraving about razor clamsrecently, and I realized she’dmore than likely tried them

whenoutwithScott.The last of the daylight

dwindled as we heard asuccessionofcardoorsslam.Non-residents perhaps, whohad dined at the hotel andwere on their way home, orelsewereonthelookoutforalittle more excitement fromtheirFridayeveningthanthissedate hotel had to offer.Tomorrow the place wouldplayhosttoanotherwedding.Come to theLakes, stay in a

country hotel like this andfindyourselfoutnumberedbynoisy wedding guests eachSaturday night, along withbrides who are worse forwear, false eyelashes fallingoff,watching theprerequisitefirework display, theirchildren pulling at theirdresses, each sporting theirbrand-new double-barrelledname.‘What are you thinking

about?’Scottasked.

‘This and that. Mostlythat.’‘Doesiteverbotheryouto

bealone?’‘Yes,’Isaidtruthfully.‘You don’t relish the

solitude?Ialwaysfanciedmyownprivate—’‘Idaho?’‘Campervan,’hesaid.‘Oh, likeashedonwheels

tohidein.Icanseehowthatcouldbenice.IhaveGeorge,remember,sothereisn’talot

ofsolitudetobehad.ButIdomissaman.’Ifinishedeatingand laid my knife and forkneatlyonthesideofmyplate.‘I miss someone to share inthe responsibility – not theromanticstuffsomuch,Icanlivewithout that.OrmaybeIlearned to live without that,soIdon’tnoticeit.ButImissthe presence of a man.Someone to say, “I’ll checkyour oil and water for you,”someonetogetthepilotlight

going.Sayingallthis,Isoundlike I just miss my dad.Winston was crap at lookingafterme.’‘Is that what you want,

someonetoleanon,someonetotakecareofyou?’‘Ithinkso,yes.’‘Youcanalwaysaskme.’‘No, I can’t,Scott,’ I said.

‘I wouldn’t ask you becauseit’s not part of thearrangement. Isn’t thatexactly what you wanted to

avoid?’He frowned. Threw me a

looktosay,Idon’tfollow.‘You wanted it this way

precisely because you don’twant to take care of anotherwoman. Paying for sex freesyou of that. Your words,Scott.Ihavenoproblemwithit.Itworkswellforme,too.’He reached for his glass

andlookedatmeseriously.‘Ireallyhatethethoughtofyoustruggling by on your own,’

hesaid.And it was as though his

words caught on the hairs ofmy inner ear. I shivered inresponse.Iwasn’tsurewhy.Perhaps

itwas theway he spoke, hiswordsloadedwithameaningIcouldn’tquitecomprehend.‘Next time you have a

crisis,Roz,’Scottsaiddarkly,‘youmakesureyoucallme.’

18

THE FOLLOWING MORNING Irose early, leaving Scott inbed, deeply asleep. I’d toldhim last night I would slipaway first thing. He wasplanning to eat breakfast atthehotelbeforedrivingnorth

for the races. Then he wasdining with Petra and Vinceat the no-frills Italian towhich I’d agreed to go butwouldbackoutoflaterwithamigraine.I never gotmigraines. But

sincePetrausedtheexcusesofrequently, she could hardlyquestion it. I was quitepleased with my ploy andplannedtogivePetraaquicktext at around two, tell her Iwas feeling a bit off, to

foreshadow the last-minutecancellation I would deliverlaterataroundsix.What did we do before

texts?Remember the nauseating

dread on the build-up tocalling in sick with ahangover? Hearing yourdisbelieving boss questionyou as you spoke in a thinwhimper: Yes, I think it’ssomethingIate…No,you’retotallyright,youcan’tbetoo

carefulwithfish.Wouldn’t it be great if I

could get rid of Wayne bytext?I slipped on jeans, flip-

flops and a pink T-shirt. IthoughtaboutleavingScottanote, but decided against it.Evidence has a way offinding itself in the wronghands. I ate two slices ofScottish shortbread and acouple of figs from thecomplimentary bits and

piecesonthedesk,anddranka quick cup of lapsangsouchong.ThenIheadedoff.With my bag slung over

my shoulder and anotherlumpofmoneyon itsway tomybankaccount–assoonasI invoiced Scott – I had thepuritanical sense ofaccomplishment that comesfromstrivingtowardsagoal.But who was I kidding?

LookatwhatIwasdoing.I drove beneath a thick,

lush canopy of trees. It wasstill early enough to spot theoccasional deer, tearing atsaplings in the fields beyondtheroad;stillearlyenoughtocatch a convoy of Fleetwoodfish vans on their waytowards Grasmere to maketheir first deliveries of theday. The morning stretchedout in front of me, full ofpossibilities, with only onehugeblemishon thehorizon.Wayne. After paying off my

immediate debts, I hadeighteen hundred pounds inmy bank account. I plannedtogettoKendalforjustafter8a.m.andspendmostof themorning there. Iwould stockthe house full of food andbasic essentials, beforeheading over toB&Q to buya new sofa, new crockery,new linen and a few scattercushions and whatnot tobrighten the place up. If Ikept myself busy, maybe I

could put tonight’s meetingwith Wayne from my minduntilthelastmoment.I would not be spending

the entire night with him. Ihadflatoutrefusedtodothat.But I did acquiesce to sex.Onetime,andonetimeonly.Turning into Morrison’s

car park, I made a mentalnote to pick up a couple ofminiature bottles of JackDaniel’s that I could knockback in the car outside

Wayne’s immediately beforeentering. There would be nopayment for this service.Onlythefreedomtocontinueearning in theway I do, andofcoursethepromisethatnoaction would be takenregarding the theft. WhichWaynehadnow talliedup tototal around seventeenhundredpounds.AsfarasIcouldtell,there

weretwothingsthatcouldgowrong.One,Wayne had lied

andwouldholdmetoransomfor ever (quite possible but,again, I had little choice).Two,Ibecamesosicktomystomach I couldn’t gothroughwithit(seeabovere:JackDaniel’s).I checked my watch. 8.53

a.m.Twelvehours fromnowandthiswouldallbeover.The shop was almost

empty,soIwasabletoperusethe aisles without thenuisance of too many other

shoppers. I filled the base ofthe trolleywithvariousfruitsand vegetables beforeheading straight to themedicines and cosmetics.There, Iwasable toexaminethe display of condomswithout fear of interruption,before hiding the packagessafely beneath a bunch ofbananas, away from pryingeyes.I had told Wayne I

expected him to wear two

Extra-safe condoms and Iwould be making a fullinspectionpriortointercourseto check for any ulceratedlesions or breaks in the skin.This was all very routine, Itold him, and he had noddedseriously, saying, ‘Couldn’tagreemore.Absolutely.’I dropped some

antibacterial bodywash intothetrolley,someantibacterialmouthwash, a bottle ofFemfresh (yes, I know the

vagina is a self-cleaningoven,butthiswasWaynewewere talking about) alongwith two bottles of NightNurse to knock me outafterwardsandhopefullysendmetooblivion.Iwasallset.

The house itself was apleasing little cottage locatedon the edge of Ambleside,justofftheroadthatleadsupto the Kirkstone Pass. If

Kirkstone Pass soundsfamiliar, you’ve most likelyheard it mentioned on thenational travel reports. It’softenthefirstofthemountainpasses to close after heavysnowfall, and lays claim tohaving the third highest pubinEngland.Wayne inherited the house

from his parents. His fatherwasapostalworker,deadtenyears,andhismotherlivedinshelteredaccommodation.

BecauseWaynewassavvy,and had persuaded his mumto transfer the house into hisnameuponhisfather’sdeath,thestatepaidforhismother’scare, leaving Waynemortgage- and dependant-free,withplentyofmoneyinhis pocket to spend on –wouldyoubelieveit?–fish.‘I didn’t knowyouhad an

aquarium,’ I said, beforetakingintheroomfully–lotsof chrome. Clean lines. Two

leathersofasinivory.A large rectangular glass

coffee table took upmost ofthe floor spaceand thedecorwas very much stylishbachelorpad. Iwassurprisedbythestandardofcleanliness.Hewasobviouslyveryhouseproud.He began pointing out the

most prized fish in the tank,whichcoveredoneentirewallofthelivingroom.Thehouseitselfwaspretty

isolated.Itwasaccessedfroma single-track road. Back inthe sixties, it had been aworking farm but, upon thefarmer’sdeath,thehousewassold toWayne’s parents, andthe surrounding land dividedup and sold off separately. Itwas now rented to twofarmers in Troutbeck whoused it to graze their sheep.I’d agreed to come herebecauseIknewnoonewouldseemycar,andbecauseIwas

notabouttomeetWayneatahotel and set myself backeighty pounds.And I’m sureitgoeswithoutsaying,butthethought of Wayne at myhouse was totally out of thequestion. Even without thepryingeyesofCelia.Two seahorses bobbed

aboutinthecornerofthetankand, without really meaningto, I reached out my hand,touching the glass. Suchendearing, vulnerable little

creatures. They are terribleswimmers, apparently,flapping about in the samespot. And was I correct inthinking it was the male ofthe species who becamepregnant? Now there’s athought.‘Doyouhaveagenerator?’

IaskedWayne.‘Naturally,’hereplied.‘What happens when you

goonholiday?Whofeedsthefishthen?’

‘MycousininGlenridding.Hekeepsreptiles.’Ofcoursehedoes.‘Welookaftereachother’s

menageries,’ he explained,‘whenwe’reaway.’I found myself thinking it

strange that I knew none ofthis. I had worked withWayneforsomeconsiderabletime, during which he’d toldmeaboutthefarmhouse,butIcouldn’t recall him talkingabout the fish. Odd, as this

was clearly his life. I couldonly imagine that I switchedoffwhenhespoke,absorbingjust the bare essentials. Petrasaid I did the samewith her.She said my hard drive wasfull and I needed todefragment to clear up somediskspace.‘So,’Isaidafteramoment,

‘thisisabitawkward.’‘It is?’ He seemed

surprised.I felt like I was in a bad

porn film, the actorsexchanginga seriesof stiltedlines before suddenly havingsex.Or perhaps an arty French

film. A grotesque, loose-fleshed man and a womanwithout make-up (‘Brave!’the tabloids would declareher)haveahuge,viciousrow… before suddenly havingsex.It was kind of tragic the

way Wayne had prepared

himself for tonight.He’dhadhis hair cut – somewheredifferent to his usual barber;perhaps he’d paid a bitmoreon this occasion. The resultwas that his blonde, almostcolourless hair had been leftlonger on top and cut razor-short at the sides. With histhin lips, sweating brow anddarkshirtbuttonedrightuptothecollar,he favouredanSSofficer.Ismiledwanlyhiswayand

suggested we might as wellget onwith it. I almost said,‘Get it over with,’ butmanaged to reelmyself in atthe last second. Afterdowning theJackDaniel’s inthe car before enteringWayne’s cottage, I had thatheady impertinence thatcomes from teetering on theborder of being drunk, whenyour confidence is at itshighestandeverythingseemsa lot funnier than it is. Now

was the time to do it. Anylonger andmy blood alcohollevelwoulddropfast,leavingme melancholy and, mostlikely, ashamed. And if Iremained true to form, thisshame would manifest asmildaggression.Iremovedmyshirt.Wayne’s eyes grew wide.

‘What,here?’hesaid.‘You really didn’t think

we’d be rolling around onyourbed,didyou?’

‘No,’hesaidquietly,butitwas apparent by hiscrestfallen look that wasexactly what he’d had inmind.‘Wayne,’ I said, wrinkling

my nose in disgust. ‘Sorry,butno.’‘Should I get undressed?’

heasked.Ishrugged.‘It’syourcall.’I was hoping he would

remain fully clothed, but no.First,heunbuttonedhisshirt,

exposingthefishbellyskinofhis chest. He glanced myway, uncertain, nervous Imay flee, I think, so I gavemy best encouraging look.The longer he dawdled, thelongerIwasstuckhere.Idrewthecurtains,stepped

out of my flip-flops andslipped off my jeans. Mymovements were fast andmechanical. I had thebusinesslike air one adoptswhen undressing for amedic

and, when I caught Waynewatching, for a second Ialmostfeltsorryforhim.Atwork, both his position

of authority and the fact hewas a stickler for detailcombined to make himunappealing on occasion. Hewas the boss everyone likedto dislike because he had apower, power over his staff,who were both bettereducated and earned moremoney than him. It was an

oddsituation,butanecessaryone. You go removing thehated figure from anyworkplace and the staff turnon each other. It’s far moreeffective to have one personwho everyone can complainabout.I’msuretheownersofthecompanywerewellawareof this. On the days thatWayne was absent from theclinic, we bickered. And Iwouldfindmyselfwonderingjusthowfarwe’dgowithour

snipes if he wasn’t there atall. Perhaps we’d turn oneach other, just as thoseinhabitants of Easter Islandare purported to have done.Though I should say Icouldn’t imagine actuallyeating Gary. No matter howmuchhegotonmynerves.All this to say that the

Wayne standing in front ofme was a sorry-lookingspecimen in his underpantsand socks. And even though

he was holding me underduress, and even though Ibeyond despised him formakingmecomehere,Inowsaw the reason for that waspuredesperation.I removed my underwear

and Wayne flinched. Ithought he might come rightthen and there, but hemanagedtoholdittogether.‘When did you last see a

woman naked?’ I asked, andheshookhishead.Hewasn’t

willingtosay.‘Okay,’Isaid.‘Ijustneedacoupleofthingsfrommybag.’I walked the few steps

across the room and, out ofthe corner of my eye, I wasawareofWayneremovinghissocksandunderpants.With the two condoms in

my hand, I made my waytowardshim.Rippingopenthepackets,I

heldhisgaze.‘One time and one time

only,Wayne.That’sthedeal.Areweclear?’Henoddedrepeatedly.‘Iwanttohearyousayit.’‘I promise,’ he said

breathlessly. ‘Hurry up, canyou?’‘No.Not until you tellme

you won’t bother me again.Thatyouwon’t speak of thisagain. And you absolutelywillnotinformanyoneofmyarrangement with Scott, northe thing with the missing

money.’He screwedup his face. ‘I

won’t. You have my word.Hurry, Roz, for Christ’ssake.’‘Are we clear, Wayne? I

meanit.’‘Yes.Yes.Absolutely.’‘Okaythen.’WithWaynesuitedupand

ready, I turned around, putmy hands on the windowsilland told him to go ahead. Ididn’t want to face him.

Certainly didn’t want histongue near my mouth. Iexpected doing it this waywould be such a turn-on forhim that he wouldn’t lastlong.Iexpecteditwouldbeover

withinseconds.Exceptnothinghappened.I waited. Twenty seconds

passed, and there wasnothing.‘Wayne?’Iwhispered.Hedidn’tanswer.Iwentto

turn around, but he reachedout, preventing me fromdoing so. ‘Don’t,’ he said.‘Don’t look at me,’ herepeated,hisvoicecatching.‘Wayne,whatisit?’‘I can’t do it,’ he

whimpered. ‘I can’t gothroughwithit.’Then he was rambling,

something about his bodybetraying him. I wasn’t sureif he’d had some sort ofmoral epiphany or he was

simply unable to sustain hiserection.‘Wayne, it’s okay,’ I said,

trying to pacify him. Then Itold him I wouldn’t look athim. Told him I would keepmy eyes away, but I wouldget dressed, and then maybewecouldtalk.A moment later, I was

reaching for my flip-flops,almostdressed.After that, I have no idea

what he was doing, because

thefuckerhitmeonthebackofthehead,knockingmeoutcold.

19

HAVE NEVER BEEN knockedunconscious.I’vefainted,butthat’s hardly the same thing.Infact,I’mjustgoingtotakea moment to explain thedifferencebetweenthetwo.Faintingoccurswhenthere

isalackofbloodflowtothebrain.It’s thebody’srightingmechanism. You faint, fallover, the blood doesn’t haveto fight gravity to travel upthroughthecarotidarteriesinyour neck and the braininstantly receives the oxygenit’sbeenlacking.Thisiswhysoldiers faint when standingfor extended periods onparade. Their blood isliterallyintheirboots.Unconsciousnessfollowing

a blow to the head is quitedifferent; it’saseriousaffair.It is not like, say, in themovies, where the villain isput out of action for a fewmoments, allowing our herotoescape,andthenhecomesto, fully functioning, only abitmorecross.No one really knowswhat

causesaconcussion,butmostare agreed on this: the brainhas become damaged,resulting in a temporary and

sometimes permanent loss offunction. Longstandingproblems can occur, theextent of which are undercontinual investigation. Aftersustainingablowtothehead,patients may havepermanently slurred speech,facial expressions may alterand, in some cases,personality traits change. Iknew of one guy, atradesman, who fell off aladder, and, where he’d

alwaysbeenmorose,thekindof unhappy, scheming typewho was highly critical ofother builders’ work,suddenlyhebecamehappy.Itmusthavefeltstrangeforhimto be babbling away to folk,his face animated and joyful,while they viewed himsuspiciously throughnarrowed eyes, noneof themquite ready to believe themiracle that stood beforethem.

And then of course therewas Mama Cass. Shereportedly increased hersinging range after being hiton the head with a piece ofcopper pipe whilst on abuilding site – although thisstory has been challengedover the years by friends ofCass Elliot, who said it wasusedasawaytoexplainwhyJohn Phillips left her out oftheMamasand thePapasforsolong(hisrealreasonbeing

shewastoooverweight).But I’m getting off my

point.I lay there on Wayne’s

carpet, more or less in thefoetal position but with myhead extended backwards,swallowing repeatedly, as Iappeared to have a surfeit ofsaliva. Iwasn’t afraid at thispoint,andIwascuriousastowhetherIwasunconsciousornot. Not many concussionsresult in a loss of

consciousness,andIcouldn’tsayforsureexactlywhathadhappened. All I knew wassomething was not as itshouldbe.IcouldhearWayne’svoice

as though through water. Hewaspanickedandcallingoutmy name and, inmy head, Iwas answering. I wasansweringloudly,shoutingasyou do when your ears aresubmerged in the bath andyou’reaskedaquestion.

But Wayne couldn’t hearme. And I couldn’t seeWayne.AndIcouldn’tmovemy head to see where hemightbelocated.Myauditorysystemwasall

off kilter. Wayne’s callingwas diminishing, just as thehum from the aquarium, thesoundofthebubblesrisingupevery few seconds, becameinsufferably loud. I tried tocovermyearswithmyhands.But movement wasn’t

possible.And then,naturally,IthoughtofGeorge.Oddly, up until that

moment, it hadn’t evenoccurred to me that I mightbeindanger.Silly,really,butIwassofocusedontryingtowade through my thoughts,on trying to understand myimmediate environment,knowing that on someintuitivelevelmysenseswerecompromised, that I actuallyfeltsafe.

More saliva flooded mymouth. That’s when I wasable to open my eyes andrealizeIhadbeensickearlier.The blow to the head hadcausedmetovomit.I began searching the

room, and my eyes came torestonWayne.Hewas rocking to and fro

on a dining-room chair, hishandsclaspedinfrontofhim.Was this how it would

end?

HadthelaughablerisksI’dtaken to try to right pastwrongsledmetothis?It seemed as though they

had.It was the cruellest of

ironies. In trying to freemyself from a life enslavedby debt, I’d become aprisoner.‘Wayne,’ I said, but it

didn’t come out right. Theword was blurred andformless. The sound was

shockingformetohear.Andfor Wayne, too, because hesnatched his head up andstaredatme.‘Fuck,’hewhispered.Then

he resumed his rockingaction.I turned over on to my

back away from the vomit,with my legs straight out.After lying with my kneesflexed for I wasn’t sure howlong,itwasarelieftostretchmy hamstrings. I pulled my

toes towards me, felt thestretch run right through mycalf muscles and into eachAchilles’.ThenItriedtoraisemy hands to test if I’dsuffered a stroke. Both armslifted evenly, so I turnedmyheadtowardsWayne.Ismiledathim.‘Why the hell are you

smiling?’heasked,appalled.And I thought: Good.

Facial muscles were stillfunctioning properly. Stroke

was now an unlikely event.With any luck, my speechwould come back when theinflammation in my brainbegantosubside.SoIdidnothing.Infact,Ifeltanoverriding

tiredness,soIsleptalittle.

When I woke, the roomwasinsemi-darkness.I could sense Wayne

nearby before opening myeyes. I stayed still and

listened.At first I thoughthewas experiencing difficultywithhisbreathing;itsoundedlaboured and uneasy. ButafterlisteningforaminuteorsoIrealizedhewastryingtocalmhimself.I watched him for a

moment and then readiedmyself for speaking, fearfulof the sound I was about tomake.‘Help.’To my ears it sounded

normal. So I said it again,onlylouder.‘Helpme.’Wayne went stock-still.

Then he put his hands to hisface and his body quakedirregularlyashetriedtoholdbackhiscrying.My head was throbbing.

He must have got me rightslap bang on the occipitalprotuberance. I had to keepmyfaceangled to theside toavoid the back of my skullconnectingwiththefloor.My

tongue was thick in mymouth like cottonwool.Andmythoughtswerewoozyanddisconnected.‘I wanted you to stay,’ he

whimpered. ‘That’s all. Ipanicked.Ijustwantedyoutostaylonger.’‘My head really hurts,

Wayne.Whatdidyouhitmewith?’He motioned towards the

desk. On it stood a small,chrome, hand-held fire

extinguisher. The type youmight see inside a boat’scabin, or a caravan. It wassmeared with blood. I feltaround the back ofmy skull.My hair was matted withbloodandtheskinwasraisedaroundthewound.IlookedatWayne.Hewas

uncertain of what to dowithme,whichwasnotgood.Andhewassweatingalot.Iwent to sit upbut, at the

smallest movement, pain

crashed through my head,keepingmegluedtothefloor.‘I’m not angry with you,

Wayne,’Ilied,placatinghim.Ikeptmyvoicewarm,steady.‘But you really need to helpme up. I need the bathroom,andI’mnotsteady.’‘I won’t hurt you, you

know.’He said this in a way that

suggested he found thethought unsavoury. Like itwas beneath him. Like he

wouldn’tstoopthatlow.‘I know you wouldn’t,’ I

said, going along with theinsanityof thesituation. ‘I’mnot scared,Wayne, but I amuncomfortable.’Hestayedexactlywherehe

was; it was as if I’d notspoken. His leaky eyesbecame empty as he lookedpastme towards thewindow.He must have opened thecurtains after he’d hit me. ‘Iwon’t be able to face you at

work on Monday,’ he saidabsently.‘You panicked. You just

got out of control for asecond. It’sunderstandable. Itotallyunderstand.’Heblinked.‘Youdo?‘Yes,’Isaidgently.‘Ishouldn’thavemadeyou

do this,’ he said. ‘It’sunforgivable.It’snotthewayIwanted it tobebetweenus.Notlikethis.Neverlikethis.’‘Neither of us is who we

wanttoberightnow,Wayne.I’m pretty sure of that. Butyou felt helpless. It’s partlymyfault.Imadeyoufeelbadabout yourself by saying Iwould only do this one time,by saying I wouldn’t stay.But you have to understand,Wayne, I’m only doing thisthingwith Scott because I’mdesperate, too. Like I said,it’s not who I want to beeither.’I tried to move again, but

painshotthroughmyskull.‘TheonlywayIgettokeep

anything is if I trap it,’Wayne said, his voicetrembling.‘That’s not true … and,

Wayne? Spare me themelodrama.’Heturnedonalamptothe

sideofhim.Itwasdim,thirtywatts maybe, the kind youleave on through the nightwhen you’re breastfeeding.Whenyouneed to locate the

baby without tripping overyourslippers.‘Willyougotothepolice?’

heasked.‘And say what? I came

here for sex because you’reblackmailing me, but youdecided to knock meunconscious instead? Notsure they’d really believethat.’‘You could say I raped

you.’‘Butyoudidn’t.’

He rose and came close,kneelingbesideme.Oddly, even though inside

I was still livid, livid withWayne, lividwithmyself forgetting into this situation, Iwasn’t scared. I watchedWayne’s sad, apologetic faceandcouldfeelonlypity.Gently, he put one hand

beneath my neck, and theother under my shoulders,preparing to lift me into asitting position. ‘I’m so, so

sorry,’hesaid.‘Wayne,’ I replied softly,

‘itwillbeokay,youknow. Ipromise,thiswillallbeokay.On Monday we’ll pretend itnever happened and we’llnever speak of it again. Nooneneedstoknowbutus.’Andheclosedhiseyesand

shook his head solemnly, asthoughgrapplingwithadeepthought. As though he knewwithout a doubt that itwouldn’t be okay. This was

not the end of the matter,whateverIsaid.Because how on earth

coulditbe?

20

ICOULDBARELYrememberthetrip home. After Wayne gotmesittingup, thepain inmyhead was too intense for meto remain vertical for morethan a few seconds and Ifound I needed to rest some

more. Imust have either lostconsciousness or slept – Iwasn’t sure which – for Iawoke covered with ablanket, no sign of Wayne,and then I got in the car andheaded home to Hawkshead.It was a wonder I arrivedthereinonepiece.Now it was the following

day, and I was in Petra’skitchen,hergrillingmeaboutflaking out of the dinner theprevious evening with Scott

andNadine.‘Didyougettheaura?’she

asked.‘Aura?’ I replied, having

no idea what Petra wasreferringto.‘Yes, the aura,’ she said

snippily. ‘The blurred vision,thenumbnessintheface, thepinsandneedles?’Igaveasmallshrug.Took

asipoforangejuice.‘Idon’tthinkso.’‘Well, you’ve not had a

proper migraine then. Youhad a headache. There’s aworld of difference.Headaches are inconvenient.Migraines are incapacitating.If you’d had one, youwouldknow. Did you takeIbuprofen?’‘Ofcourse.’‘Andnochange?’‘Nope.Nochangeatall.’‘Didyoutrylyingdownin

adarkenedroom?’sheasked.Ialmostlaughed.Kindof,I

wantedtosay.‘No, I didn’t try that,’ I

said.‘Iwillnexttime.’She looked at me

suspiciously, as though shedidn’t believe I’d had amigraine in the first place.She knew I’d cried off fromher dinner last night withoutgood reason, and this,coupled with her knowledgethat I was playing my cardsclose to my chest regardingmy financial situation, had

gotheralljumpy.Petra couldn’t stand not to

know.She separated rashers of

streaky bacon before layingthemonthegrill.Aloudwailcame from the garden, thekind of wail that wouldnormallymerit Petra runningwildly though the house tofind its source, breathlesslychecking if her child waslyingbentandcrookedat thefootofthestairs.

She looked up, cast asidelongglancetothegarden,tuttingdismissively.Thenshewent back to the bacon,rejigging it, moving eachslice along a fraction, toallowhertocramalittlemoreontothegrill.‘Doyouwantmetogoand

checkonClara?’Iasked.‘Vinceisoutthere.’‘Yes, but she’s still crying

prettyhard.’‘She’lllive.’

Rinsing her hands beneaththe hot tap, she toldme thatlastnighthadn’texactlybeena success. Their dinner withScottandNadinehadcometoa close rather early, ratherabruptly,actually, afterScottmadeanexcuseaboutaworkproblem that needed dealingwith, and the brittleness toher tone told me she feltsnubbed.BeforeIcouldrespondina

suitably soothing manner, as

wasmywaywhenPetrawaspissed off with someone,suggesting they probablydidn’tmeantobethoughtless,probably had a lot on, shechanged the subject, tellingme that even though I’d nottechnically suffered a truemigraine attack, I did lookverytired,andnotatallwell.‘Is something worrying

you?’sheasked.I feigned surprise. ‘No,’ I

said.‘NothingthatIcanthink

of,anyway.’Ididn’tsoundatall convincing, but then whodoes when asked such aquestion? ‘Do I really lookthatbad?’ I asked. ‘I thoughtI was looking rather perkytoday.That’salotofbacon.’‘There are six of us.Mind

you,Clarawillonlypickatit.She raided the cupboardsbeforewewereupandfoundthe doughnuts Liz left lastnight.’‘Six?’ I asked. ‘Who are

thesix?’Petrafrowned.‘Thefourof

us…andScottandNadine.Itold you they were comingforbrunch.’My forehead prickledwith

heat.‘Youdidn’t.’Petra cracked eggs into a

bowl,pausingtocountuponher fingers. ‘Two forVince,’she said out loud. ‘Two forScott … will you have oneeggortwo?’Without really realizing

what I was doing, I slid offthe stool and went to reachformybag.‘Where are you going?’

Petra said. ‘You’re notleaving,surely?’Of course I’m leaving, I

wanted to say. You don’tactuallyexpectmetostay.‘Just clearing a space,’ I

repliedweakly.‘Iwishyou’dtold me they were coming,Petra. I’m not really up tomaking polite conversation

thismorning.Myheadhurts,and—’‘Ididtellyou.’She didn’t. If she had, I

wouldn’t have come. Icouldn’t say that, though,obviously, so I had to let itrest.‘I look like shit,’ I said

afteramoment.Petrastoppedwhatshewas

doing and turned to faceme.Asmileplayedatthecornersof hermouth. ‘You just said

youwerelookingquiteperky.You’re not bothered aboutwhatScott thinksofyou, areyou? Because I can tell yourightnowhewon’tevenlookatyou.He’sthatkindofguy.Doesn’t notice women. Youcould be naked in front ofhim and he’d be morebotheredabout—’‘IwasmeaningNadine,’ I

replied quickly. ‘She’salwayssowellgroomed.’‘Go and wash your face

and put on some of mylipstick, if it makes you feelbetter.They’llbehereinfiveminutes. Though I don’tknow why you’re fussing, Ikeep telling you, they’re notwhat you think. They’rereallynotas…’Petra rambled on, but I’d

stopped listening. Inside, Iwas flapping. I was lookingaround for an escape, anexcuse, so I failed to noticeright away that she had also

taken on a high colour. Herneck, the tops of her arms,hadgoneadeep,blotchyred.Angry red, like patches ofpsoriasis.At first I thought it was

because her crush on thecouple had waned. Petrathrew herself into these newfriendshipswithsuchenergy,such gusto, that when thetimecamefor theotherpartytocoolthingsalittle,perhapsby accepting another

invitation rather than herown,shewouldbehavelikeajilted bride. Well, maybethat’s a little harsh, but shedid feel the hurtextraordinarilydeeply.I watched Petra move

about the kitchen. Watchedher staccato actions, herbreath catching in her throat,andknewrightthenthattherewassomethingmoreatplay.Dreadpouredthroughme.Petra was attracted to

Scott.ThenVinceappearedatthe

French windows. ‘Morning,Roz,’hesaidbrightly.‘Morning.’‘Howlong tillbrunch?’he

asked.Petraregardedhim,andher

jaw tightened. ‘Fifteenminutes. And you’ll need tochangethoseshorts.’‘Right-o,’hesaid,andshot

me a quick smile. ‘Georgeokay?’

‘Great.’‘Think he’ll be up for a

spot of fishing Thursdayevening?’‘He’dloveit.’‘Six thirty, then,’ he said.

‘I’llpickhimupafterhistea.’Vincedisappearedupstairs.

Petrawatchedhimgo,givingthe impression of beingunreasonablyirritatedbyhim.Therewasnothingunusualinherbossinghimaround.Thatwashowtheyfunctioned.But

the look in her eyes – thescorn–asheshuffledpastinhis shorts and flip-flops, thatwas something entirely new.Theshorts,incidentally,wereprettybad.Theywerefawnincolour and a shade too shortforarotundfigurelikeVince.The type worn by out-of-shapeAmerican spectators atgolftournaments.‘Haveyoutwohadarow?’

I asked Petra, hopeful herbehaviour was caused by

somethingotherthanScott.‘A row?’ she said,

distracted. ‘We never row. Iignore him when I’m angry,youknowthat.’‘Areyouangrythen?’Her shoulders heaved

visibly as she exhaled. ‘No,’shesaid.‘It’s just…it’s justsometimes he can be so’ –she paused before saying –‘disappointing.’ Then shelookedatmeguiltily,likesheknewshewasoutof linebut

shecouldn’thelpit.Thedoorbellrang.‘Christ,’ she said, peering

at the bacon. ‘I need to turnthese over now. Would youmindgettingthat?’

Long story short, Scott wasable to disguise his look ofshockuponseeingmeanswerthe door. And what couldhave been a period ofsupreme awkwardness turnedoutnottobewheneveryone’s

attentionwas takenbyClara,who threw themost splendidtantrum. I love watching agood tantrum. It brings outsuch odd behaviour in thesurrounding adults, nonemoresothanPetra,whohadatorrent of excuses as to whyClarawas conducting herselfinthismanner.AndalsofromNadine, who did her best toreassure Petra (on somesubliminal level, anyway)thatshewasnotabadparent,

andinnowayatfault.In the midst of all this,

Scott shot me a look acrossthe kitchen that said, Shit!This is unexpected! but thenfollowed it quickly with ashrug and warm smile asthoughtoconvey:Itiswhatitis.Let’snotfuckup.Sowedidn’t.We each stuck to the

harmless conversation ofone’s own offspring.ListeningtoNadineandPetra

cluckawaywasdullbutsafe,and Iwas about tomakemyexcuses and leave whenNadinethrewaspannerintheworks.‘Youknow,Roz,I’vebeen

thinking. I’msureyouwouldgetalongwithmybrother.’‘Oh?’Isaid.‘Yes,he’sbeensinglefora

long time. I’ve no ideawhy.He’sgot sucha lotgoing forhim.’‘Wonder why I’ve not

come across him,’ I saidvaguely,andglancedatPetra,whowasabsolutelybeaming.You would think by herexpression that Nadine hadmentionedroyalty.ShegazedtowardsNadine,eagerforhertogoon.But Scott said, rather

bluntly, ‘Your brother’s nouse to Roz.’ And Nadineturned tohim,herexpressioncalm but masking deepoffence.

‘Why?’ she said. ‘Why ishenouse?’Scottshrugged.‘He’s’–he

paused, choosing his wordscarefully – ‘he’s not whatyou’d call properlyemployed,ishe?’I glanced at Petra, and her

smile fell. She looked asthough all the air had beensucked out of her. Reluctantto upset Nadine, but feelingas though she must saysomething, she uttered, ‘Roz

islookingforsomeonestable.Financial stability is the key,more than anything else,really.’This might have come

across as pompous if youdidn’t know the history. ButPetra was protecting herselfhere as much as me. As itwas, Nadine didn’t appearconcerned with what Petrahad to say, she was clearlyfuming about Scott’sassessment of her brother,

and the rest of us looked atoneanother,helpless,waitingforhertoblow.‘My brother,’ she said

through her teeth, ‘is aperfectly decent humanbeing, who has no financialburdens. He is kind towomen, incredibly loyal and,just because he doesn’t haveyour ambition, Scott, it doesnotmakehimaloser.’Scott sat back inhis chair.

‘I didn’t call him a loser. I

justdon’t thinkhe’s right forRoz,that’sall.’Nadine did a double take.

‘And you would know thishow?’‘Because’–andhe looked

atme as he said this – ‘Rozseems like shewouldwant aguy with something aboutthem. Your brother’s adrifter. He’s a nice guy, buthe’s not going anywhere.He’ll still be living week toweekwhenhe’ssixty.’

Nadine shook her head. ‘Ican’t believe you come outwiththisstuff.’‘To be honest,’ I

interruptedweakly, ‘itwouldbeimpossibleat themoment,anyway.George isn’t stayingwith his dad for anothercoupleofweeks,soI’mstuckathome.NotthatImind,it’sjust—’‘You could go on

Thursday,’ Vince piped up,the first words he’d uttered

since we’d sat down. ‘Youcould go out with him onThursday.’ He’d fashionedhimself a bacon-and-eggsandwich,andashebitdowna little of the yolk spurted.Petra looked away. ‘I’mtaking him fishing.He couldspend the night here, or Idon’t mind dropping himback late, give you a chanceto have a couple of drinkswith this guy. If that’s whatyouwant.’

Nadine turnedback tome,her head angled to one side.She was waiting for aresponse.‘Okay’ came out of my

mouth without my realizingI’dactuallyspoken.And it was only when I

glanced at Scott that I sawwhatIhaddone.Hewasangry.Hedidn’twantmetomeet

Nadine’sbrotheratall.

Winston dropped Georgebackathomejustafterseven.‘You need to have a talk

withhim,’hesaid,asGeorgewalked past me, glum andsilent, and went straightupstairstohisbedroom.Celia was in her front

garden watering the hangingbaskets with a pump-actionwatering can specificallydesigned for the task. Sheappeared fully focused, evenfrowning slightly as she

adjusted the spout, but shewasclearlyeavesdropping.I tiltedmyhead inCelia’s

direction and asked Winstonif he wanted to come in,indicating that I’d rather notdiscuss George on the frontstep.Buthedeclined.‘Gotahotdate,’hesaid.‘Ohyes?’‘MickeyTallis.We’re kite

surfing on MorecombeSands.’‘Trynottokillyourself.’

Winston had knownMickey Tallis for years andknocked about with himwhenhecouldn’tfindanyonebetter.Hewas the lastof theunmarrieds.I tendedtoavoidMickey (particularly whenhe’d had a drink) as healwaysmanaged to bring theconversation back around toUltravox. And what anabsolute travesty it was that‘Vienna’ was denied thenumber-one spot on account

of Joe Dolce’s ridiculousnoveltyrecord,‘ShaddapYouFace’.None of which was

relevant now, but it poppedintomyhead.Winstonremainedwithhis

weightagainstthedoorframe,not quite ready to leave. Heglanced towards Celia,noddedhello,andthenturnedback tome. ‘He’s still prettycut up about the incident atschool.’

‘George is?What did yousaytohim?’‘Itoldhimhecouldn’ttake

money and other people’sstuff, because they make amassive deal out of it.But itdidn’t mean he was a badpersonoranything.’Silently, I mouthed,

Shhhhh, to get him to lowerhisvoice.‘Whatdidhesay?’‘Says hewants to go back

tohisoldschool.Hereckonshehasn’tgotanyfriendshere

and he wants to go back toWindermere.’‘I’lltalktohim,’Isaid.‘Okey-doke.’Thenapause.‘Roz?’‘Whatisit,Winston?’‘Youlooktired.’I shrugged. ‘It’s been a

roughweekend.’‘Are you okay?’ he asked

tenderly. ‘I mean, are youmanagingokay?’‘I’m fine,Winston.Go fly

yourkite.’

Upstairs, George sat on thenew beanbag I’d picked upfor him fromPoundstretcher.It was cheap. It wouldprobably last about fiveminutes.Georgehadhisbacktothedoorandwaswrigglinghis small body, trying toenvelopasmuchofhimselfinthe thing as possible, asthoughtryingtodisappear.‘Hey,’Isaidsoftly.

‘Hey,’hereplied.‘Doyoulikethebeanbag?’‘Yeah.’I sat down on his bed.

Gesturing to his duvet cover,Isaid,‘Igavethisawashforyou.It’llsmellniceandcleanwhenyouclimbinlater.’‘Thanks,’he replied, and I

feltsilly.Whatdidhecare?For a time that afternoon,

whilemakinguphisbedwithfreshlinen,smoothingoutthecreases, fluffing his pillows,

rearranging his Pokémonfiguresonthewindowsill,I’dhad the short-lived sensationoffeelinglikeagoodmother.‘Your dad says you’re

worriedaboutschool.’‘Iwanttomoveschools.’‘Okay,’ I said carefully,

‘but where would you go?There’s only one school inHawkshead. That makesthingskindofdifficult.’Heturnedtofaceme.‘We

couldmoveback.’

‘We can’t, honey. Notstraight away, anyhow. And,besides,you’dstillhavetogoto school tomorrow, whetherwemovehouseagainornot.’‘I could go to my old

schoolandyoucouldtakemethere on your way to work.Ollie Mundine goes toWindermere each daybecausehismumworksatthepostoffice.’So he’d really put some

thoughtintothis.

‘Okay, I see where you’regoing, and yes, it would bedoable. You could moveschools,andyes,Icoulddropyou there onmyway to andfromwork,butI’mnotgoingtodothat.’‘Whynot?’‘Because the only reason

youwant to leave is becauseyou’re ashamed of whatyou’ve done. And you can’trun away from things,George.Whathappensifyou

get into trouble at your nextschool? Then what? Wemove again? And again?Every time you don’t likesomething, you can’t justpackitinorrunaway.’‘Whynot?’‘Because you run out of

options, honey. And soonerorlateryouhavetofaceuptostuff.’

21

AT WORK THE followingmorningtherewasnosignofWayne. It was now tenfifteen, I was on my thirdpatient of the day and theother clinicians werespeculating as to the reason

forhisabsence.Absence with no

explanatory call was not likeWayne.Gary took it upon himself

tophonehimbutcouldgetnoanswer on either the mobileor landline, so after askingeach of us whether wethought he should informhead office, and each of ussaying no, inform them thefollowing day if he stillhadn’t turned up, he went

aheadanddidit.After the events of

Saturday,Iwasn’tcompletelysurprised Wayne had goneAWOL, but it was a littleworrying, as itwas sooutofcharacter. Wayne nevermissed work unless he wasincapacitated by illness, andhe would always call. Hewould leave lists ofinstructions for us, as thoughheweretrulyindispensable.Wherethehellwashe?IfI

could turn up for work afterwhat hadhappened, so couldhe.Perhaps Wayne was

thoroughly ashamed of hisbehaviour on Saturday andhad gone on a drinkingbender.Perhapshe’dbebacktomorrow, looking worse forwear,fullofapology.AsIsaid,aftermybangon

the head on Saturday night,my memory of leavingWayne’s was a little hazy. I

could recall him babbling,tellingme repeatedly he wassorry for his actions, that hemight not make it into workonMonday.Hesaidhemightneed a few days to clear hishead. Or at least I think hedid.NowIwasn’tsurewhatIremembered.I’dgonehomeandcrashed.

I didn’t need the bottle ofNight Nurse, the trauma tomyhead inducinga solid tenhours of dreamless sleep, the

like of which I couldn’trememberhavingsinceIwasa teenager. I’d wokendisorientated and dizzy, withlittle memory of the drivehome, feeling relievednonethelessthatmybodyhadtakencharge,fallingintosucha depth of sleep that I wasspared the ordeal of relivingthenightatWayne’soverandoverinmyhead.After a long soak in the

bath, by ten o’clock the

following morning my bodyseemed intact. My senseswere functioning again andwithonlyminimalswellingtothe head and a scalp woundhiddenbymyhair,brunchatPetra’shadn’t seemedsuchadisastrous way to finish offthe weekend – all thingsconsidered.ExceptnowIhadadate.I had a date with the

brother-in-law of the guy Iwasscrewingformoney.

I had tried, repeatedly,afteragreeingtoit,tocancel.Itriedtowormmywayoutofit. But Nadine was smartingafterherexchangewithScott,and the whole situationbecame a stand-off betweenthe two of them. She wasconvinced that Scott wasunfairly pigeonholing herbrother, as was typical whenpeople chose to livedifferently to him, and themore he tried to talk her

round, the more she dug herheelsin.Also, where at first Petra

had sided with Scott, in somuch as she believedNadine’sbrotherwouldbeanunsuitablechoiceatthisstagein Roz’s life, as she phrasedit, she ended up doing acomplete about-face,declaring, ‘Who are we todecidewho’srightforher?’Petrified of saying the

wrong thing, tripping myself

up, I watched the situationunfoldwithincreasinghorror,asScottdraggedupinstancesof Nadine’s brother’sfecklessness.Needless to say, with all

that swimming around inmyhead this Monday morning,and a full patient list, Icouldn’truminateforlongonWayne’s absence, so I left itto Gary to try to track himdown.KeithHollinghurstgroaned

nowas I sprung the jointsofhis thoracic spine.Therewasaspinousprocess–T8–thathad become perpetuallylodged and proved stubbornto get moving. I climbed onto the treatment couch,straddlingKeith from behindto get my full weightperpendicularly over the topof him, and pressed downthroughmythumbs.After twentypushes,Keith

begged for mercy, and some

air–it’s pretty impossible totake a breath when havingthisperformed–andtoldme,craning his neck and puffinghard, that he had apropositionforme.‘Not another one,’ I said,

rememberingthelasttime.‘Hearmeout.Not…’and

henoddedhisheadwheretheword ‘wanking’ should be,not able to bring himself tosay it in the presence of alady. ‘No more of that

nonsense,’hesaidguiltily.I climbed down and

washed my hands as Keithstruggled with the task ofturning himself over –imagine a woodlouse tryingto right itself. It occurred tome that it wouldn’t be longbeforeKeith, likethehumblewoodlouse, would becomemaroonedinonepositionandcouldn’t turn over withoutassistance.Once sitting, and with his

breathingnearnormal,hetoldme he’d bought a small bed&breakfastatauction.‘Daft,really,’ he said. ‘The moneywas burning a hole in mepocketandIboughtthethingwithoutthinking.’Ihadnoideawherehewas

goingwith this,andknowingKeith and his previousrequests, it really could beanything. So I remainedquiet.‘Anyway,’ he went on,

‘whenIlookedatit,Irealizedit’s going to be hell to staff.You gotta live on site withthose things, or else theydon’tmakemoney…Hestarted to coughat this

point.Big,hackingcoughs.I handed him a wad of

tissues and waited as hehawked up the phlegm. Thistookthreegrowlsandanotherlong spate of coughing.Without comment, or even aflicker of disdain, I passed

him the bin to drop in hisdepositofsoiledtissue.On first qualifying as a

physiotherapist, eachclinician rotates betweendepartments toaccrueawidebase of knowledge and togive them some idea of theareainwhichtheywouldliketo specialize. It was on onesuch placement, respiratorycare, that I developed mypoker face, used for dealingwith such stomach-turning

situations as the removal ofKeith’sphlegm.The woman was a tiny

bird-like thing, as mostchronicbronchitispatientsare–thesheeramountofenergyneeded for breathing, to getthe air into theircompromised lungs, tends touse up calories faster thanthey can ingest them. Herchest rattled like an oldEwbank as she spoonedtomato soup into her mouth.

Beside her was her sputumpot. Each respiratory-carepatient had one to spit theirsecretionsinto,anditwasmyjob to check the colour ofthem every few hours forsigns of infection, blood andothernasties.WithherglazedeyesfixedontheTVhangingfrom a bracket high in thecorneroftheroom,Iwatchedas she dipped her bread intothesputumpot, twice,beforechewingonitthoughtfully.

Anyway, all this to say, Iwasnottotallygrossedout,asmost would be by Keith inthis instance, and wasgenuinely interested in whathehadtosaynext.He dabbed at his eyes.

‘I’ve got builders in there atthemoment,tearingtheplaceapart.’‘What are you planning to

dowithit?’‘Offices,’ he said. ‘I

thoughtyoumightwantone.’

Iwaited.‘Not on a lease,’ he said.

‘Just month-to-month rent.All bills included exceptphone. There’ll be adownstairs toilet and spaceforyourpunterstowaitinthehallway.’‘Howmuch?’‘Seven hundred a month.

But I’ll waive the first twomonths’ rent, let you get onyour feet, if you treatme forfreewhenIneedit.’

‘Youwoulddothat?’‘You’ve always seen me

right, Roz. And I know youdon’t like it how LaughingBoy out there’s always gothis eye on you, controllingyoureverymove.’‘YoumeanWayne?’‘You could work for

yourselfagain,love,’hewenton.‘Beyourownboss.Whatdoyousay?’I did a quick sum in my

head. With what Keith was

offering,overheadsdeducted,I could increase my weeklywage by around thirty percent. That was as long as Ididn’tscrewupagain.‘I’d say thankyou,Keith,’

myvoicecatchingas Ispokehis name. ‘Thank you, thankyou,thankyou.’Andhesmiledbroadly.‘Grand,’ he said. He

touched my shoulderaffectionately,ashecouldseeI was tearing up. Then he

gaveme a firm pat, the wayyouwould aWelshCobyouwere particularly fond of.‘That’s my girl,’ he said.‘That’smygirl.It’llbeyourstomoveintoinamonth.’

22

THE PHONECALL came onmymobile at around mid-morning, during my teabreak.Iwasoutsidewatchingwithinterestasasongthrushtried to smash open a snailshell using apieceofbroken

roof tile as an anvil. Therepetitive tap-tapping hadcaught my attention,remindingmeofthepiecesofgrit Winston used to launchagainstmybedroomwindow,backwhenhewasonhiswayhome from the pub after I’dthrownhimoutforgood.‘RozToovey?’‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Can you

speak up? The traffic fromtheroadisquitenoisy.’‘Iwastoldtoringyou,’the

caller said. ‘By my sister.Nadine?’‘Oh, yes.’ I found myself

screwing up my face.Wanting to cut the callwithoutfurtherconversation.‘So then,’ he said, ‘this is

mecallingyou.Bitawkward,really.’I took a breath. ‘Did

Nadine mention why shewantedyoutogetintouch?’A small laugh. ‘Yes. You

are a nice person whom she

thinks I might findinteresting.’‘Shesaidthat?’‘Of course not. You want

thetruth?’‘Whynot?’‘She said she was friends

with your sister, who wasdesperate to get you togetherwith someone who wasn’t atotal fuck-up. And Iimmediately sprang to mind.Frankly, I think she’sprobably sick of hearing

aboutyoursinglestatus.’‘Whatelsedidshetellyou

about me?’ I asked, amusednow.‘Nice figure, bit scruffy –

whichshethinksIam,too,soI took that with a pinch ofsalt.Shesaidyou’reacould-be-kind-of-fun-for-a-whiletypeofperson.Whatdid shesayaboutme?’‘She said you were

definitelynotaloser.’‘I’mnot,’hesaid.

‘Well,that’sgoodthen.’‘I believe we have to go

out on Thursday. Is thatcorrect?’hesaid.‘That’scorrect.’‘Doyouhaveanywhere in

mind?’‘Surpriseme,’Isaid.‘Allright,RozToovey,’he

said.‘Iwill.’When I finished the call I

wassmiling.Anditwasonlylater, when treating Scott’selbow, that I realized I’d

forgotten to ask him hisname.

‘His name is Henry,’ Scottsaid,regardingmesteadily.Ihadholdofhisforearmin

onehand,andwiththeotherIwas pushing down on hiswrist to stretch out theextensor muscles. His elbowwas almost better, and thiswould be the last treatmentsession.‘Soyouaregoingtogooutwithhim?’heasked.

IstoppedwhatIwasdoingandtookastepback.‘You’d rather I didn’t,’ I

said.Astatement.‘No, you can seewhoyou

like,’ he said. ‘It hasabsolutelynothingtodowithwhat I think. It’s just, like Isaid yesterday, Henry’slimited.’‘Limited? He sounded

nice.’‘Nice,’ he repeated.

Spitting the word from his

mouth.‘Look,Scott,’Isaid,losing

patiencewithwhatever gamehewasplaying,‘whatdoyousuggestIdo?Itwasyourwifewho orchestrated this, yourwifewhobasicallybulliedmeintodoingit.Itriedtosayno.InfactIdidsayno.Perhapsifyouhadn’tbeensovehementin your attack on yourbrother-in-lawyesterday,thenwewouldn’tfindourselvesinthispickle.’

‘You think she did itbecause she suspectssomethingbetweenus?’‘I think she suspects

nothing.She forced the issuebecause you were so againstit.Becauseyouweresofault-finding about her brother. Itwas puzzling to watch. Icould see Petra didn’t knowwhattomakeofit,she—’‘Fuck Petra!’ he snapped,

outofnowhere. ‘Petrahasn’tgotanoriginalthoughtinside

herhead.’Again,Ipulledaway.Quietly, firmly, I said,

‘Stop it, Scott. That’senough.’Iwas taken aback. I’d not

seenhimlikethisbefore.‘Stopwhat?’hedemanded.Keepingmyvoicelowand

withoutprovocation,Isaid,‘Idon’t understand why youactedlikethat.Itwaslikeyouwanted to be found out. Doyou want them to know

what’s been going onbetweenus?’‘Of course not. Don’t be

fuckingridiculous.’‘Thenwhat?What?’And it was as if he had

stalled. I stopped speakingbecause, all of a sudden, hisexpression collapsed and heliftedhishandstohisface.He bowed his head before

exhalingdeeply.Then he reached out his

hand, gesturing as though to

say, Give me a minute. Ireally need a moment toregrouphere.With his eyes soft,

remorseful now, hewhispered, ‘This is so hardfor me.When can I see youagain?Ineedtoseeyou.’

True to hisword, as soon asmy invoice was sent to hisoffices,anhourlaterthefourthousandfromScottlandedinmy account and I began to

dream about the future. Notthe fantastical dreams of thedesperate that had occupiedmy thoughts in recentmonths. Instantly, I stoppeddreaming about lottery winsandsurprisewindfallsandgotback to planning theupcomingmonths. I couldn’trepay my parents overnight,that much was clear, but Icould, if things worked outwith Keith Hollinghurst’sbenefaction, begin to earn a

decent living, putting awaysomemoneyeachmonththatwouldgo towardsmakingupfortheirloss.Atthispoint,Ididn’tknow

howlongthethingwithScottwouldcontinue.Notforever,I knew that, and his recentbehaviour–goingfromnastyto oddly clingy in the spaceof a second – had unsettledmesomewhat.Butwhenyouseethatmoneystarttomountup, when you’ve lived each

dayfrightenedofwhatelseiscoming through yourletterbox, it can be hard togive up on something solucrative. Two more nightswith him and the credit-cardbalancewouldbezero.And, ifkeptsecret,noone

was going to get hurt by ouractions. I wasn’t rippinganyone off to make money,trampling over the littlepeople. There were noharmful environmental

effects. I was even going topay tax onmy earnings. Thesocialist in me almostapproved.And yet I couldn’t

reconcile myself to the factthat what I was doing wasokay. No matter how manywaysIlookedatit.Also,Inowhadasenseof

growinguneasethatwhathadstarted out as a businessarrangement, – what for mewasverymuchstillabusiness

arrangement – was perhapstakingonanothersignificanceforScott.AndofcourseIfeltsick with guilt when mythoughtsturnedtoNadine.It would be our third

meeting when I would get asenseofthingstocome.This timewedid not need

thewholenight.Scottwantedtomeet badly and I toldhiman entire night wasimpossible. I explained thatGeorge was fragile. He

understood, and wenegotiated a one thousandfivehundredpoundfeeforanafternoonoffunandpleasureto be undertaken thefollowingday.So now, on Tuesday

morning, without Wayne’spryingeyes, Iwasable todosomething I would notordinarilydo,andthatwastocancel theafternoonpatients.I moved them around andslotted them in elsewhere,

giving the vague excuse of a‘hospital appointment’.Patients tended to be tooworried you might havesomething sinister wrongwith you to pry, so theyrearrangedwithoutcomplaint.Andshouldtheworsthappen,shouldWayne return while Iwasout,myexcusewouldbethat Iwas at the hospital for‘a head X-ray’, which oughttokeephimquiet.Scott had rented a cottage

on the north-eastern shore ofConiston Water for the nextthreeweeks–paidforincashso no one could track it.Hisplan had been to take it forthewholeofthesummer,buthe was told by the lettingagent that a family fromBristol had booked for mid-August.Coniston lies due west of

Windermere,thelakeitselfisa lot quieter, and the cottagewas accessed either directly

from the water or from aprivate lane. I suspected theowners had run a little shortof money after fixing theplace up for renting, as thelane needed attention.Presently, it was just twogravel tracks, with roughgrass in between, whichcaught on the undercarriageof the car. I could just aboutmake it through in the Jeepand Scott was able tonegotiate it well enough in

the Range Rover, but astandard saloon would haveto park in the lay-by off theroadanditspassengersarriveonfoot.I assumed thiswas one of

thereasonsScottchoseit.We could stay there

undisturbed, invisible to theoccasional car which camealongthissideofthelake.Ofcourse, the main attractionwas that we could come andgo as we pleased. It was a

hideaway. In fact, once he’dorganized the booking, Scottchided himself for notthinking of it earlier. Whywaste time in hotels, wherethere was the risk ofdiscovery, when he couldsimplytakeaplacelikethis?The advantage formewas

it was only five miles and atwelve-minutedrivefrommyhouse. I could slip out ofwork,getthecarferryacrossWindermere, have sex with

Scott for the afternoon, bethere to pick George up andhave tea on the table, allbeforefivethirty.And be fifteen hundred

poundsbetteroff.At one fifty p.m. I made

my way along the track. Itwasborderednotbytheusualdry stone wall but by thickhedgerow.Frommyelevateddriving position, I could seeover the tops to the flat floorof the distinctive U-shaped

valleybeyond, carvedout byaglacierinthelasticeage.Atthe end of the track, Scott’sRange Rover was reverseparked neatly to the side ofthewood store.With the sunreflectingoffhiswindscreen,Ididn’t realizehewas in thefront seat, andhe startledmeby climbing out of the carunexpectedly.‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Iwanted

towaitouthereforyou.’‘Youneedn’thave.’

‘I thought we could go intogether.Ithoughtitmightbenice.’‘What, and pretend like

we’re a real couple, on ourholidays?’He seemed hurt.

‘Somethinglikethat,’hesaidquietly.Inside, the cottage was

pretty, but had been finishedin a rush. The light switcheswere spotted with emulsionand parts of the skirting

boards didn’t quite runtogether correctly.Therewasa note on the table to say anelectrician would be in thefollowing morning to fix theshowerinthemainbathroom.Sorry for the inconvenience,itsaid.‘Quaint,’IsaidtoScott,as

I wandered from room toroom.‘It’s shoddy,’ he replied.

‘I’m glad I didn’t take it forthe whole summer. I’ll look

forsomethingbetter.’We stood looking out of

the French doors. Beyondwasthelake,flatandcalmasglass and reflecting the treeson the opposite bank. Alongwith the other stretches ofwater thatmake up theLakeDistrict,Conistonhasaspeedlimit of 10 miles per hour.For a long timeWindermerehad no such limit, and theshorelinehadaperpetualoilyiridescence from spilled

diesel. Early-morning walkswouldbespoiledbytossersinwetsuits revving their jet-skisloudly. I wasn’t sorry aboutthe introduction of the speedban, though many were.Including Scott. He’d had tosellhispowerboat.Awareofthetime,Iturned

to Scott and began to kisshim.Pushing my hips forward

into his, I slipped the tip ofmytongueinsidehismouth.

Icouldfeelresistance.Unsure how to play it, I

started to unbuttonmy tunic,but he reached out. ‘Don’t,’he said flatly, ‘you’rebehavinglikeaprostitute.’I let my arms fall to my

sideandlookedathim.‘Whatexactlydoyouwantmetodo,Scott?’ I asked. ‘We haven’tgot much time. I assumedyou’dwantto—’‘Getcracking?’His voice was laced with

sarcasm.Hisexpressionhard.Ipulledaway.Fastenedup

mybuttons.‘Would you rather we

didn’tdothistoday?’Iasked.‘Ijustdon’twanttofuckas

soon aswewalk through thedoor,’hesaid.‘Apologies,’ I said,

irritated, ‘but last time youdid. Last time that’s exactlywhatyouwantedustodo.’He swallowed, and we

stood in silence. It was the

first time we’d had a heatedexchange, and neither of usknewquitehowtoact.‘Hey,’ he said after a

moment, touching my cheekwithhisfingertips.‘Don’tgetupset. I don’t know what Iwant.IknowIwantyou,butI don’t want it to feel likeyou’re only here for themoney.’Whattosaytothat?‘Icouldn’tdothiswithjust

anyone,’Ibegan,intendingto

smooth things over.Massagehisegoalittle.‘I know, I know.And I’m

sorry,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’thavemadeyoufeelthatway.Let’sgoupstairs.’I managed a weak smile.

As we climbed the stairs hetold me he wanted to watchme undress slowly while hewaitednakedonthebed.With reference to my

physiouniform,hesaid,‘Youcanbenurse.’

Iundressedasherequestedandheaskedmetoliedown.‘Close your eyes,’ hewhispered, thenproceeded tokiss me tenderly, starting atmy ankles. When I went torespond,hesaid,‘No,don’t.’He made love to me that

afternoonwithsuchaffection,such devotion, that I reallyshould have realized theextentofhisfeeling.ButIdidn’t.Iwasafool.Or maybe I just simply

chosetoignoreit.

23

‘WHEREAREYOU?’askedPetracrossly. ‘I’m outside yourtreatment room, holding acheese-and-tomato quiche,and that guy Gary saysyou’ve gone to the hospital.What are you doing at the

hospital?’‘Can Gary hear you?’ I

replied,sittingupquicklyandslidingtotheedgeofthebedawayfromScott.‘No.’ She lowered her

voice. ‘Idon’t thinkso.He’sbackinhisroom.’I exhaled. ‘I’m skiving,’ I

said.‘Oh, that’s a relief … I

thoughtyouwereill—’‘Petra!’ I warned, before

she blurted out anything

more.‘Yes, yes, sorry.’ She

stoppedspeaking,andIheardher heels move across thefloor. ‘I’m outside now,’ shesaid a moment later. ‘Hecan’t hear me. Why are youskiving?’‘Because I can. Wayne’s

not there to watch my everymove, so I thought I’d givemyselftheafternoonoff.’‘Luckyyou.’‘Coming from someone

who hasn’t worked full timeinoverfifteenyears.’‘You’re counting, I see.

Anyway,’shesaid, ‘whatamI supposed to do with thisquiche?’‘Will it keep until

tomorrow?’‘Shoulddo.’‘Okay,popitinthefridge.’‘Whatfridge?’‘Inthekitchen,attheback

of the clinic. You’ll have toclose your eyes when you

open it, ’cause it’s prettygrubby. No one cleans it.Stickanoteonthetopsaying‘Handsoff’orGarywillhelphimself. I’ll take it hometomorrowinstead.’‘All right. Where are you

now?You’renotathome.’‘Iam.’‘So you’ve gone and got

carpets all of a sudden, haveyou? Speaking to you, itusually sounds like you’reinside a shipping container.

Alltinnyfromthelackofsoftfurnishings.’‘I’minbed.’‘Intheafternoon?’‘Yes, Petra. In the

afternoon.Peopledothat,youknow.’‘Oh,’ she said, genuinely

surprised.Petra often had a

puritanical view of resting.Shewassuspiciousofanyonewho rested without a validmedical reason and thought

people who slept late werewastingtheday.‘So,thanksforthequiche,’

I said lamely, trying to bringherbackontrack.‘Not a problem,’ she

replied, and she rushed meoff the phone at that point,because she had a text andcouldn’t access it whilecontinuingtospeaktome.I turned around. Scott had

his arm thrown across hisface.

‘Youliesoeasily,’hesaid,his voice heavy with post-coitalsleepiness.

The following morning,Wednesday,Iarrivedatworkearly. As I’d rearranged apatient from the previousafternoontocomeinateight,IdroppedGeorgeatbreakfastclub – unlike after-schoolclub,youdon’tneed tobookin advance. I was twentyminutesintothesessionwhen

I heard voices in reception. Ipopped my head out toinvestigate,expectingtoseeapatient wanting to make anappointment, or else buysome of Wayne’s pointlesshealth-foodsupplements.Butitwasacouple.Andan

ill-matchedcoupleatthat.Seeingmeat thedoor, she

stood first. She was aroundforty,mediumbuild,wearinga grey, smart, two-buttonedsuit,withblackpipingaround

thelapel.Beneath,sheworearound-necked T-shirt whichhad the white-white newnessof a firstwear.Her hairwaspulled into a neat ponytail atthenapeofherneckand sheworelittlemake-up.There was something

immediately familiar abouther–anoldpatientperhaps?Idecidednot,becausethoughher expression was pleasant,eager almost, she didn’tregard me in a way that

expectedrecognition.The man was older and

bordered on scruffy. He wasshort, rounding and woreyesterday’s shirt, which washeavily creased. He had amoustache that neededtrimming.‘Hello. Sorry to bother

you,’ the woman said. ‘I’mDS Joanne Aspinall and thisis my colleague DS RonQuigley.We were hoping tospeaktoaMrGeddes.’

‘Wayne Geddes is nothere.’‘Anyideawhereheis?’‘I’venot,I’mafraid.’‘When did you last see

him?’Thiscaughtmeunawares.‘I … I’m so sorry,’ I

stammered, ‘but I’m actuallyin the middle of a treatmentsession rightnow.Wouldwebeabletodothislater?’‘Sure,’saidDSAspinall.‘Imaybesometime.’

Shesmiled.‘Norush.It’saquiet day at the office, so tospeak.We’rehappytowaitaslongasittakes.’Iclosedthedoor.Aslongaswhattakes?This was the last thing I

needed.Thepolice–andnotjust the police, but CID –sniffing around. What onearth did they want withWayne? Had he reneged onour deal and told HQ it wasme who took that money?

Had they now passed thematter on to the police?Christ.Ineeded tobuysome time

to get my thoughts straight.Work out what to say tothem.As it was, I didn’t have a

great deal left to do withregards to the patient I wasworking on, but I dawdled. Ipretended there was an areaof the rear deltoid that couldbe contributing to the

patient’s problem and spentan inordinateamountof timebreaking down the tissue,mobilizing the scapula, allquiteunnecessary.When I could delay no

more I finished up and toldthe patient I’d meet her atreception.Thedetectivesseemedvery

at home. They had none ofthe anxiousness apparent inthe faces of patients as theywaited. – waited, knowing

theywereabouttoexperiencesome degree of pain. Therewasn’t a week went bywithout someone makingreference to ‘physio-terrorists’, and I’d smile asthough hearing the term forthe first time. The twodetectives slouched happily,though, shoulders relaxed,knees dropped slightly apart,asifwatchingtelevisionwithabeer.AfterI’dscheduledanother

appointment and bid thepatient goodbye, the twodetectives approached thedesk. I closed the bookingspage on the screen and toldthem I would be with themshortly.‘We’ll just loiterhereuntil

you’reready,’themansaid.‘Loiteringwithoutintent,’I

answered, and he tried tosmile.Eventually, I told them I

was free and asked what I

couldhelpthemwith.Facesserious,theyshowed

me their warrant cards and Ilaughed nervously at theformality. It seemedextraneous and silly, likewhenthewaiterpoursa littlewine for tasting, and youhave to go through therigmarole of saying that it’sacceptable. Very nice, thankyou.Pleasepourtherest.‘Weare trying toascertain

the whereabouts of Wayne

Geddes,’DSAspinall began.‘Any information you canprovide us with would beverywelcome.’‘I don’t know where

Wayneis,’Ireplied.‘Is it normal forhim tobe

absentfromwork?’‘It’soutofcharacter.’They both nodded

thoughtfullyandDSAspinallwithdrew a notebook andpencilled something illegibleinit.

As shewrote, I turnedmyface towards DS Quigley.‘Can I ask what this isabout?’‘Preliminary inquiries,’ he

answered.‘Inquiries into what?’ I

asked.Hemade a face as though

he wasn’t at liberty to sayrightnow.‘So you say it’s out of

character for Mr Geddes notto be at work for … how

many days, is it?’ DSAspinallasked.‘If he doesn’t come in

todaythiswillbethethird’‘Hewould usually be here

by now, would he?’ sheasked.I nodded. ‘He arrives

early.’‘Toopenup?’‘Yes, but we’ve all got a

set of keys, just in case he’sdown at HQ, or overseeinganotherclinic.’

I couldn’t believe I’dactually used Wayne’s termof‘HQ’.‘Andwhendidyousayyou

last saw him again?’ sheasked.Ihesitated.‘ItwouldhavebeenFriday

afternoon,afterwork,’Ilied.‘Howdidheseemtoyou?’

sheasked.I thoughtofWayne in that

moment. Wayne giving methe ultimatum. Wayne

threateningtogotothepoliceif I didn’t acquiesce, if Ididn’tgiveintohisdemands.‘I’m not sure what you

mean,’Isaid.‘Did he seem worried?

Agitated?’‘Notespecially.’‘Whatdidyoutalkabout?’‘I’m not sure I remember.

Work. The comingweekend.Ourplans.’‘WhatwereWayne’splans

fortheweekend?’sheasked.

‘Idon’tthinkhesaid.’‘So you told him about

yourplans?’‘I guess I must have.

Look,’ I said, trying to slowthisdownbefore shehadmeblurting out something I’dregret,notwantingtodivulgetherealnatureofmybusinessat Wayne’s house onSaturday, ‘I can’t reallyremember. Me and Wayne,we’re not what you’d callclose. He’s my boss. I

exchangepleasantries, I keepthingsneutral.Idon’tpryintohis life, he doesn’t pry intomine.’DS Aspinall smiled. ‘I

understand.’She flicked over a page in

hernotebookand requested Ibearwithherforamomentasshe jotted down a couple ofthings.It was one of those

awkward silences that I hadthetendencytofillwithchit-

chat. I stayed quiet,rearranging a few items onthedesk. I removed thebackof theholepunchand tappedittwice,thesmallwhitepaperdiscs fluttering into thewaste-paperbasket.I looked up and saw she

wasstillwriting.DSQuigley had his hands

inside his pockets and wasrocking back and forth fromhis heels to the balls of hisfeet. His shoes made a soft

squelching noise that heseemedtobeunawareof.Heturned and glanced aroundthereceptionarea.‘What kinds of things do

you get in here?’ he askedme.‘You mean what kinds of

problemsdowetreat?’Henodded.‘Backsandnecksmostly.’He raised his eyebrows,

indicating that was not whatheexpectedmetosay.

‘Since early man decidedto stand upright, to govertical, he has experiencedproblems with the spine,’ Iexplained.‘I thought it would be

knees,’ he said, flexing his,and wincing as he did so. Icould hear the crepitus, thegratingofboneonboneashestraightenedup.(Incidentally,the more flirtatious malewould ask ifwe sawa lot ofgroinstrains.)

‘We do see a quite a fewknee problems,’ I went on,‘but mostly it’s backs andnecks … then knees,shoulders and feet. Alongwithafewsportinginjuries.’DS Quigley nodded

meditatively.‘What’s Mr Geddes’ role

here?’DSAspinallasked,hernote-taking finished for thetimebeing.‘Practicemanager.’‘Ishewellliked?’

I widened my eyesinvoluntarily and laughed alittle.‘Nocomment.’DS Aspinall smiled in

response,thenwaitedtoseeifIwouldaddanythingfurther.‘IsWayneinsomekindof

trouble?’Iaskedcarefully.‘Wejustneedtofindhim,’

shereplied.‘Have you checked his

house?’‘We’re going there next.

This was on our way, so it

madesensetostopherefirst.We’vebeentoldhehasmadeno contact with work sinceFriday.Isthatcorrect?’‘AsfarasIknow,but,like

I said, I’mnot really theoneto ask. Gary, who’ll be inaround eight forty-five, maybeable tohelpyou.He’s theone who called head officeand reported Wayne absentfromwork.’She kept her gaze on me

and, out of nowhere, it

dawned on me how I knewher. She was a few yearsbelowmeatschool,andsincethenI’dseenheraroundfromtime to time. She’d lostweight, though, or elsechanged her appearance.There was definitelysomething different abouther. I just couldn’t put myfingeronit.Afteramomentsheasked,

‘Does Mr Geddes have anyfamilylivingnearby?’

‘His father’s dead and hismumisinahome.’‘Anysiblings?’‘Notthathe’smentioned.’‘Okay, thank you,’ she

said. ‘I think that’s all weneed fornow.Wemightpopback later, ifweneed furtherinformation.’I tried to mask my relief

that the interrogation wasover by doing something Iwould never do –commentingonherposture.

‘Do you suffer from neckproblems,Detective?’‘Whydoyouask?’‘Just in the way you’re

moving.Youseemas thoughyou might have somestiffness at around C5/6level.’Irefrainedfromsayingshe

had what we unflatteringlycalled a pokey-chin posture.Often stiffness in the lowerneck and upper thoracicregion of the spine causes

people to thrust their chinsforward. This has the effectof limiting their rotation –when they try to turn theirhead to the side, theyelevatetheir shoulder at the sametime. Think Paula Abdul,robot-like, turning toadmonish Simon Cowell inthe early days of AmericanIdol.‘I had a breast reduction,’

DS Aspinall said simply.‘I’ve been left with stiffness

in my upper back from theyears of constant—’ Shestoppedmid-sentence.Sheletmefillintheblanks.Her partner, DS Quigley,

lookedtothefloor.‘Ah,’ I said, unfazed now

thatwewerebackonmyturf,‘it can be such a cruelcondition. Sometimes theupward-facing dog stretchcanhelp.Ifyouliftyourheadbackwardsaswell,asyoudoit.Doyouknowthestretch?’

‘Ido.I’lltryit,’shesaid.Sheclosedhernotepadand

made like she was ready toleave.Casting around the

receptionareaonelasttimetomake certain nothing hadslipped her attention, shethankedme formy time andhanded me a card with herdetails on it, should Waynegetintouch.She walked a few steps

from the desk and, just as I

thoughtIwasridofthem,shestoppedand turned, frowningas though grappling with apuzzlingthought.‘Did Mr Geddes ever

mentionanymissingmoney?’sheasked.

24

‘MONEY?’IREPEATED.‘Yes,’ said DS Aspinall,

‘money.’DS Quigley, who had

alreadyexitedtheclinic,nowdoubledback,lingeringinthepassageafewfeetbehindhis

partner. His face remainedpassive, open, and I realizedinstantly this was a well-practised set piece betweenthetwoofthem.Lure the victim with their

affable, friendly demeanourbefore going in for the killwhen the victim was offguard.‘I don’t think Wayne

mentioned anything,’ Imurmured.‘Try casting your mind

back to last week,’encouraged DS Aspinall.‘Did he question you aboutany irregularities in theaccounts?’Just then, thefrontdoorof

the clinic opened andMagdalena appeared,carryingascalemodelof thespine, complete with all themajornerves,andaprolapseddisc at L5 level. I had beenhuntingforityesterdaywhenI couldn’t get through to a

patient the idea thatsomething pressing on anerve in his back could givehim pain in the front of hisshin. He was convinced hehad a fracture, even thoughtheX-raysaidotherwise.Magdalena gave a token

smile to the two detectives,and said, ‘Guten Morgen,’whichwaswhatshedidwhenshe didn’t want to engage inconversation. Shedisappeared into her

treatment room, whereuponshe switched onClassic FM,loud enough to be heardthroughthecloseddoor.DS Aspinall gestured

towards Magdalena’s room.‘Sheworkshereaswell?’‘Yes.’‘German?’‘Austrian.’‘We’ll need to interview

you all at some point,’ shesaid.I told her that would be

fine and then waited for hertosayshewasleaving,again.‘Youwerethinkingbackto

last week?’ she prompted,phrasingitasaquestion.‘Oh yes,’ I replied, as

though I’d clean forgotten,and made a show of liftingmy eyes to the ceiling,pretendingtorecalltheeventsofthepreviousfewdays.Eventually, I shook my

head, saying, ‘No. I’m reallysorry, but I can’t remember

Wayne mentioning anyirregularities. He tended tokeep the accounting stuff tohimself. He had a way ofmakingout like itwasaboveourheads.IfyouknowwhatImean.’‘Sure,’shesaid.‘Igetit.’I got the sense the

interviewwasnowover, so Imoved out from behind thedesk, mumbling somethingabout getting ready for thenextpatient.

DS Aspinall watched mecarefully before thankingmeagainformytime.‘Seeyoulater,’shesaid.Iforcedasmile.‘Yes,later

then.’IlisteneduntilIheardboth

car doors bang shut, then Irantomytreatmentroomandpushed aside the Venetianblind. They were in a Fordsomethingorother.Icouldn’tmake out what. But it was anew, black saloon –the type

of non-descript, top-of-the-rangemodelthemedicalrepsarrivedin.DS Aspinall was driving.

Shereversedfast.Recklessly,actually. And then sped offoutoftheclinicentrance.Iwasshaking.WherewasWayne?Ifhehadreportedme,why

wasn’t he here? Somethingwas very wrong with thiswholesituation.Ineededsomeair.

I went outside to the carpark and sat on the bench.Aboveme,abuzzardcircled,gaining height. I watched astwo jackdaws made anassault, dive-bombing thebird, screeching theirwarnings, until it changed itscourse away fromwhatmusthavebeentheirnest.The clinic door opened

behindme.‘What was that about?’

Magdalenaasked,referringto

our two early-morningvisitors.‘The police. They’re

lookingforWayne.’‘Why they look for him

whenwe havemanymissingchildren?’‘Whatmissingchildren?’ I

askedher.‘I don’t know,’ she said

defensively,‘buttherewillbesome.Forsure.’I didn’t pursue it.

Conversations with

Magdalena often ended withher walking off, oddlywounded,as ifyou’dmadeadirect attack on her. Icouldn’t fathom if thingswerelostintranslationorthiswassimplyhowshewas.The patients felt it, too.

They’d exit her treatmentroom wearing befuddledlooks of shame, eitherbecause they somehow feltthey had offendedMagdalena, or else because

they’dcomplained she’dhurtthem physically … whichoffendedMagdalena.‘Did Wayne ever talk to

you about the accounts,Magdalena?’Iasked.She shook her head. ‘He

always talk about his stupidfish.’‘Didheeveraskyouabout

somemissingmoney?’Hereyeswidened.‘Hedidnot,’shesaid,with

alookofTellmemore.

I stood up. ‘No, meneither,’Isaidabsently,andIheadedbackindoors.Trying to keep occupied

and not let my thoughts runamok, I put together aninvoice to send along toScott’s office. This time Ibilled them for a lifting-and-handlingcourse.IbilledScott’sfirmforthe

full £1,500. And then IemailedtheattachmentinthehopeI’dgetpaidsoon,rather

than printing out a copy andsendingitthroughthepost.Gary arrived, and I told

him about the police. Hewanted a blow-by-blowaccount of their questions.When I’d finished he said,‘Sounds like they’reinvestigatinga fraud.Doyouthinkhe’sclearedoffwithallthetakings?’‘Unlikely,’ I said quickly.

‘Besides,what takings?Mostof our transactions are

electronic, so themoney’s inthebank.’Gary shrugged.

‘Rememberthatguyfromthegolf club, the secretary,who’dbeenskimmingmoneyoffthemembershipfees?’‘Vaguely.’‘He’d been at it for years.

He got awaywith over sixtythousand before anyonenoticed.’‘Whatever happened to

him?’

Gary made a spookyaction, wiggling his fingers.‘Nobody knows,’ he saiddramatically. ‘But they didfindhiscarneartheferryportat Stranraer. So either hethrew himself in the sea, orelse he got over to NorthernIrelandunseen.’IlookedatGary,andallat

once I was filled with theurgetoflee.Wasitpossible?I had money in the bank.

George wanted to leave. Infact, only that morning, he’daskedonceagain ifwecouldmove to another place.Winstonwouldbeguttednotto see his son, but then, hehadn’t been thinking aboutthat when he was outscrewing other women, hadhe?Icouldgo today. Icouldpackuprightnow,beforeDSAspinall and her colleaguehad the chance to return andquestion me further. A new

start. Where would I go?George and I had up-to-datepassports, we could drivesouthandjustkeepondrivinguntilwefoundsomewhereweliked. Live by the beach inAquitaine. Go across theborderintoSpainandliveforcheapinGalicia.‘Roz?’I could hear Gary’s voice,

asiffromfaraway.‘Roz!’‘What?’

Gary was regarding melike I’d lostmymind. ‘Yourpatient is here,’ he said,pointing to Sue Mitchinson,who was sitting, twisted, onone side of her bottom, apained expression on herface.‘What’ve you done to

yourself, Sue?’ I asked,regainingmylucidity.‘Had a fight with the

Hoover,’ she said. ‘On thestairs.’

She followed me into thetreatment room, mumbling,‘Am I glad to see you!’whereupon I closed thedoor,shelving all thoughts ofescaping for the time being,tellingherI’dhavehersortedoutasfastasIcould.

As it was, the police didn’treturn that day, and so myrehearsed responses went towaste for the time being. Infact,nothingat allhappened,

aside from huge speculationfromGaryandMagdalenaastoWayne’s whereabouts andthequantityofmoneyhemayhavetakenwithhim.Curiously, I was able to

discussthisasthoughitwerereal. As though I, too,believed Wayne to beresponsible. Terrible, really.But I didn’t have a lot ofchoice. Getting anxious, Itried Wayne’s mobile everyfew hours, but itwas always

thesame.Noanswer.

Thursday evening rolledaround before I knew it, andafterall theunease,worryingabout what exactly Waynewasplayingat, itwasnicetohave something else to thinkabout. I’d texted my addressto Nadine’s brother afterreceivinghiscall,andhewastopickmeupatseven.Withno clue as to what he hadplanned, I dressed middle of

the road, in a summer skirt,sleevelessshirtandsandals.Ididn’tbotherwithanymake-up, save for a little gloss onmy lips, as my skin had areasonable colour and, as Ithink I may have mentionedpreviously, I’m kind of crapatapplyingit.Vincehad takenGeorgeat

five. He’d called, telling menot to bother feeding him.Theywouldpickup fish andchipsenroute.‘WhatdidIdo

right to deserve such a greatbrother-in-law?’ I askedhim.To which he replied I wasactually doing him a favour.Petra was in a monumentalsulk,thelikesofwhichcouldgoon forweeks, andhewaspleased to get out of thehouse.‘What’sitaboutthistime?’

Iasked.‘Ah, the million-dollar

question. It’s one of thosewhereIhavetoguess–sorry,

whereIshouldalreadyknow–without her having to tellme.’‘Oh,’Isaid.‘Yes,’hereplied.‘Oh.’Then he said, ‘I’ll bring

him back around ten? Doesthatgiveyouenoughtime?’‘I’m sure that’ll be more

than enough time.Bring himbackatnineifyouwant.It’llgiveme an excuse to get ridofmydateifhegetsboring.’‘As you wish … though,

Roz?’‘Whatisit,Vincent?’‘I think this guy might be

allright.’‘What makes you say

that?’‘JustafeelingIget.’

He arrived early. I had thelounge window thrown wideand the back door open tocreate a wind tunnel effectthrough the house. I didn’tplan on inviting him inside,

on account of the drearyinterior and the generallysparse, unloved feel of theplace.AsPetramentionedonthe phone, I had not yet gotaround to acquiring newcarpets, so we were stillmanaging with the blackasphalt flooring. The placelooked pitiful and I wasembarrassed.Also, after a full day of

sun, the lounge had thetendency to surrender the

ingrained odours of tenantspast. The room would fillwith the pungent smells ofscorched coffee, hints oftobacco and worn sockswhich I could never find thesourceof.I was applying a second

coatofcandy-pinkvarnishtomy toenails when I heardCelia’s voice through theopenwindow.‘So you’re the gentleman

fromwork thatRozhasbeen

keepingasecretfromus!’My stomach folded in on

itself.Thoughitwasnotpossible

tomakeouthisexactwords,Iwas able to discern from histonethatmydaterepliedwithsomething polite and self-effacing. I just hoped hedecidednottoquizmeonthismystery man ‘from work’later.Asitwas,Iinstantlyforgot

allaboutthis,becausewhenI

opened the door, ‘You?’wasoutofmymouthbeforeIhadthechancetostopit.He gave an apologetic

smile, saying, ‘Surprise,’ratherflatly.Myfacefloodedwithheat.ItwasHenryPeachey.The

insurance agent who hadpricked my thumb to obtainblood.Christ, he was attractive.

HewasattractiveandhewasNadine’sbrother.

Shit.Shit.Shit.Shit.This was not something I

hadanticipated.Ihadplannedto bow out of this one dategracefully, never to meetagain.I was aware of Celia’s

perplexed expression as shecaught sight of my panickedface. I could almost hear herthinking that it was nowonder I was still single ifthis was how I greeted

potentialsuitors.‘Whydidn’tyousayitwas

you?’ I said in a forcedwhisper.‘Because I wasn’t sure

you’d accept the date,’ hewhisperedback.‘I would have,’ I replied.

‘Anyway, stay there,’ I toldhim, trying to gathermyself.‘I’ll get my bag. Where arewegoing?’And he made a wide,

sweeping gesture with his

hand. ‘Anywhere you like,’he said. ‘I thought we’dfollowournoses.’Heworefaded jeansanda

grey marl T-shirt. He was alittle taller than me by acouple of inches and had aneat backside. There was anice thickness to themusculatureofhisupperbackthatwassoappealing.Andhewalked like a boxer. Sure-footed,solid.What was I doing? I

couldn’tgo.Ishouldn’tgo.Ihadtogo.Icouldn’tstop

myself.We headed towards the

gate, past Celia, who, in thetime it had taken for me tograb my bag and shoes, hadmanaged to apply freshlipstick and fashion aridiculously large, wide-brimmed hat on her head. Itwasheldinplacewithapieceof chiffon tied beneath herchin, and I shot her a

bemusedlookasIpassed.ThecarwasaredPeugeot.

It was meticulously clean,around fifteen years old, thekind of sensible vehiclebestowed upon a teenagedboy and in which he wouldlearntodrive.‘Enjoy yourselves!’ Celia

cried, clapping her handstogether happily. She wasbeaming.‘We will,’ replied Henry,

opening the passenger door

forme.‘Bye,Celia,’Isaid.She waved us off and I

exhaled, relieved she hadn’tpressedHenryforanyfurtherdetails but feeling hugelyunsettledandtwitchythatI’dbeendupedbyhisconcealinghis identity. I cast my mindback to our first meeting,trying to remember if I’dsomehow spoken of ScottElias.ScottElias,hisbrother-in-law.

Had I slept with Scott atthatpoint?No.Thatcamelater.Atthe

hotel,whereHenrywinkedatme. Bloody hell. Could hehave glimpsed Scott therethat night? He must havebeen moments away fromseeing him. Was this somekindoftrap?What a mess. I couldn’t

thinkstraight.Icouldfeelmycomposurestartingtocrack.We hadn’t gone very far,

maybe just a few hundredyards, when Henry indicatedbeforepullingover.He liftedthe handbrake and turned inhis seat to face me. Dreadswamped me as I regardedhim. He had the look ofsomeone who was about tooffload,andIwasterrifiedofwhathewasgoingtosay.He thrust out his hand.

‘Henry Peachey,’ he said,smiling. ‘I’mverypleased tomeetyou.’

‘Roz Toovey,’ I repliedshakily, takinghishand, ‘butI thinkwemay have alreadymet.’‘I’m so sorry about that. I

should have told you on thephone that I knew who youwere. I can see I’ve alarmedyou. You look as thoughyou’ve seen a ghost.Canwestartagain?’I tried to smile. ‘Okay,’ I

saidweakly.There was an awkward

silence,duringwhicheachofus struggled to findsomethingtofillthevoid,andthenathoughtoccurredandIstartedtolaugh.‘Whatisit?’heasked.‘Myaddress.’‘Whataboutyouraddress?’‘You already knew it. I

toldyouIwouldtextyoumyaddress when we spoke onthe phone, but you alreadyknewwhereI lived. Igave ittoyouwhenyoucametothe

clinic.’He winced. ‘Ah, yes,’ he

said.‘Itwasonyourrecords.’‘You know everything

aboutme.’‘Not that much,’ he said.

‘Anyway, does it botheryou?’I shrugged. ‘At least you

knowI’venotgotAIDS.’He shifted in his seat, his

face suddenly serious again.‘I’m not really allowed todiscuss the results of the

bloodtest.It’sconfidential.Itwillbesentout toyouin thepost.’Ijustlookedathim.‘Oh,comeon,’Isaid.‘You

wouldn’t be here if that testwaspositive.’I didn’t tell him I’d been

tested theminute I foundoutWinston was screwingaround. Along with anothertest six months later, just tobesure.ItoldhimIcouldreallydo

with a drink, and hebrightened at that. ‘Pub?’ hesuggested eagerly. ‘Or thecheapskateoption?’‘Explaincheapskate.’‘WecallattheCo-op,pick

up a selection of beers, anddrinkthematabeautyspotofyour choosing. Crispsoptional.’‘Let’sdothat,’Isaid.

25

TARN HOWS WAS as good aplaceasany.It’samileorsofrom Hawkshead and a nicespot to sit andwatch the sungo down. People flock herebecause,basically,you’vegotall the scenery you’re ever

goingtoneedpackedintoonesmallarea.There is the tarn itself –

perfectlyplaced,prettycobaltunder a blue sky; inky blackwhen beneath cloud. Thewoodland,withits lonepinesatthewater’sedge,givingtheplace a romantic feel. Andthen there’s the view to theLangdale Pikes, the fells allthe more majestic from thisaspectandelevation.The downside to Tarn

Howsisthesheerquantityofpeoplewhovisit, particularlyoflate,asthepatharoundthewater has been improved tosuch a degree that you couldget aroundon roller skates ifyousetyourmindtoit.At this time, getting close

tosevenforty-five,therewereonlyafewstragglers leftanda group of Japanese tourists.We stayed in the car as thegroupexitedtheminibus,notwanting to get caught up in

the general confusion asumbrellas (to be used asparasols) were opened,camerasstrungaroundnecks,selfiesticksextended,wedge-heeledtrainersadjusted.We grabbed our beers and

sunglasses and headed off.Instead of going towards thepath, though,we turnedbackon ourselves, climbing thesmall hill which lies duesouthoftheroad.Theviewisimmeasurably better, and

hardly anyone is anarchicenough to go against theNationalTrustsignposts–soyoucanmoreorlessbankonhavingittoyourselves.Henryalsohadlivedinthe

area since birth, he said. So,having visited Tarn Howsthroughout our youth, wewere without the look ofloved-up wonder displayedon the faces of many of thefolk stumbling upon thisbeautyspotfor thefirst time,

couples whose expressionswere so full of hope for theyears ahead, as though thisone experience would be thebenchmark of their entirerelationship. This is how it’sgoing to be, you would seemanifested in the girls’springy gait, the affectedcadence of their words, andI’d think, cruelly:Every day,sweetheart.Everyday.‘Here all right?’ Henry

asked, gesturing as he

reached the summit, thebottles clinking against eachother in the bag he carriedwithhim.Therewasapatchofgrass

thesizeofadoublemattress,flattened from an earlierpicnic. I told Henry it wasfine,andwesettledourselves,Henrytakingtheopenerfromhis pocket. He offered me abottle of Miller, giving meanother gentle, chiding lookof disappointment at my

choice. ‘All of this,’ he’djoked earlier, motioning tothe array on offer in theCo-op, ‘and you go for blandAmericanbeer?’‘BlandAmerican beer that

Ihappentolike,’I’dreplied.‘What?’ I said tohimnow

as he removed the cap fromhis bottle, ‘You’d prefer oneof those women who drinkpints of Guinness, orCaffrey’s, while watchingrugbywiththeboys?’

He cast me an amusedsmile. ‘I’ve been out with acoupleofthose,actually.’‘I thoughtyoumighthave.

Everbeenmarried?’‘Just once,’ he replied. ‘I

wasmarriedonce.’We went on talking for a

time, one of thoseconversationswhen you skirtaround topics, trying eachother out for size, consciousnot to offend or try too hardto impress. Our exchanges

were frisky and teasing, butthe whole time I was morethan a little guarded onaccountof theScottsituationnever being far from mymind.‘So,’ Henry said, after

we’d discussed films,musicianswefoundirritating,foreign places we’d like tovisit.Iwasrelievedhedidn’tstart banging on about hisbucketlist,assomanyofthemenIknewdid,notrealizing

theirlistwasexactlythesameas everyone else who readGQ: scuba dive on theGreatBarrier Reef, live inBarcelonaforayear,gettheirpilot’s licence. ‘So, you’reseeing someone fromwork?’saidHenrycasually.This caught me off guard.

I’d hoped he’d not reallyregisteredCelia’scommentofearlier.As I stumbled on my

words, he said, ‘I can’t think

whoitmightbe.NotWayne,surely?’‘No,’ I shot back quickly.

‘No,notWayne.’He blew out his breath,

smiling. ‘I couldn’t reallypicture that relationship. IfI’mbeinghonest.’I took a swig and stalled,

thinkingthroughthebestwayto proceed. If I admitted toseeing someone – anyone(they didn’t actually have toexist)– Iwouldhaveanexit

strategy.I could say I was pretty

muchforcedintothisdatebyhis sister, Nadine, and wasseeing someone secretly thatnooneknewabout.That’s what I should have

said.That would have been the

sensible thing to do. To getout now before anyone gothurt.Except I couldn’t bring

myself to do it. Henry was

too damned beautiful and Iwasalreadycaptivated. Ihadthe sense that, even if I triedto go ahead and tell Henry Iwas involved with anotherman, something completelydifferent would shoot out ofmymouth.‘I don’tmean topry,’ said

Henry, cajoling softly, ‘but,obviously,itwouldbenicetoknowifI’mwastingmytimehere.’Idrainedmybottle.

‘There’s no one,’ I saidfirmly, and he raised hiseyebrows in surprise. ‘I wasseeing a guy, but it’s over. Ifobbedmyneighbouroffwiththat lie because she’s alwaystryingtosetmeup.ItoldherI was seeing someone fromworkjustto,youknow…’‘Oh,’ he said, looking

relieved and genuinelypleasedatthesametime.‘Oh,well,that’sgoodthen.Didn’twant to have to fight over

you.’Ismiledweakly.‘Not least because I’m a

shittyfighter,’headded,ashepassedmeanotherbottle.‘What are you good at?

Justoutofinterest,’Iasked.‘Me?’ he replied, and

without missing a beat, said,‘Living.’‘What kind of answer is

that?’‘TheonlyanswerIhave.’I laughed and began

pickingatthewetlabelontheside of the beer bottle. ‘Thatdoes sound rather big-headed,’Isaid.‘Does it?’ he replied. ‘I

don’t mean it to. I’m notsaying, “Hey, isn’t my lifegreat, isn’t yours rubbish?”Just that I try to spend mydays doing as many of thethingsthatIenjoyandhardlyany time doing the things Idon’t.’‘Suchasworking,’Isaid.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Such asthat.’He tipped the neck of the

bottle of his strawberry aleagainst mine. ‘Cheers,’ hesaidhappily.

Foxy was yapping in thegardenwhenwereturned.‘Be quiet!’ yelled Celia,

beforeblowingherwhistle.Not wanting Henry to see

thestateoftheinteriorofmyhome, and also, not wanting

him to be around whenGeorge returned, I didn’t askhiminforcoffee. In fact, I’dsaid goodbye to him as I’dclosed the car door. Wedidn’t kiss.Celia andDenniswere enjoying the last of theevening sun on their newlypurchased bench seat, and itwould have been supremelyawkward.Nonetheless,Henry took it

uponhimself tofollowmetomyfrontdoor.

‘Nice time?’ asked Celia,and I mumbled that it waslovely,thanks.Iwasawareofher shooting Dennis a look.She now thought I was thetype of woman whosabotaged every relationshipby being too picky. Shedidn’t have to say it. It wasthere, plain as day, in thelines of disapproval at thecornersofhermouth.Turning the key in the

lock, I said to Henry, ‘I’d

inviteyouin,butmyson…’I let the words hang,

hoping he’d make the leapbetween George arrivinghome soon and his presencebeinginappropriate.‘Then invite me in,’ he

said.‘Georgewillbeback.’‘So,youdon’thavefriends

round?’heaskedmildly.‘Notever?’‘Notthemalekind.’‘Whynot?’

‘Because I can’t stand that“This is Mummy’s newfriend” crap. Or, “George,come and meet your UncleHenry.”It’sbadforkids.’Heregardedmeasiftosay

I was being over the top,overprotectiveofGeorge,andso I told him, in a whisper-shouting kind of way, thatsince hewas not a father, hehadnorealgroundstoairhisopinion on my parentingdecisions.

For a second he appearedangry.Itwasfleeting,though.Thekindofshort-livedsurgeyou experience when cut offintraffic,beforerealizingyouactually know the old guy inthecarinfront.‘Just five minutes,’

persistedHenry.‘No,’ I said. ‘I can’t.

Sorry.’‘I want to see where you

live.’‘AndI’dratheryoudidn’t.’

At that moment Celia gotup from the bench seat andtoddledacrossthefrontlawn,hands on hips. ‘Would youtwolovebirdscareforaglassofPimm’s?’‘Not for me, thanks,’

replied Henry quickly. ‘I’mdriving. And Roz has justoffered to treatme to one ofherfamouscoffees.’Celia’s face dropped.

‘Perhapsnexttime,’shesaid,and Henry threw Celia his

most charming smile, saying,‘Definitely. Wouldn’t missit.’Heturnedbackaround,and

his eyes were alive withmischief.SoIpushedopenthedoor.‘The lounge,’ I said flatly,

andgestured forHenry togoonin.IturnedandsawthatCelia

hadn’t moved. She was stillinthesamespotonthelawn.‘Sorry,’ I mouthed to her

silently, ‘do you mindterribly?’, feelingbadwhenIsawhowdejectedshelooked.‘Not at all,’ she blustered,

recovering herself. ‘Go!Enjoy!’ and then: ‘He’sterribly handsome, Roz,’ shewhispered, her tone nowgirlish and conspiratorial. ‘Isheakeeper?’

Henry hadwandered throughto the dining room. ‘I seeyou’re going for the

minimalistlook.’‘Listen, if you going to be

critical—’He put his finger to his

lips. ‘I’m not. But Roz, youdon’t have any furniture.Whatonearthhappened?’‘Oh,youknow.Stuff.’‘Haveyou justmoved in?’

heasked.‘Not exactly. I had a visit

fromthebailiffs.Anyway,doyoustillwantthatcoffee?’He tried to smile

sympathetically but wasn’tentirely sure if I was pullinghisleg.‘Letme,’hesaid,andhe moved towards thekitchen. ‘You sit down’ – hecasthiseyesaroundtheroom– ‘you sit down there… onthatbox.’I stayed where I was. My

sandals were starting topinch,soIremovedthemandstoodinmybarefeet.A moment later he

reappeared.‘Cups?’

I shook my head. ‘Justwhat’ssoakinginthesink.’‘It’s like my student days

all over again,’ he saidbrightly. ‘Tea out of a glass,vodkaoutofabowl.’I followed him into the

kitchen.Theballsofmy feetmadeasoft,thwackingsoundon the linoleum as I moved.‘What did you study?’ Iasked.‘Chemicalengineering.’‘Shouldn’t you have a job

at,like,ICI,orsomething?’Henodded.‘You’reright.I

should.’‘Butinsteadyou…?’‘Piss about in insurance

twodaysaweek.’‘What do you do when

you’renotworking?’‘Read,mostly,’hesaid.‘Why?’He laughed. When he

realized I wasn’t joking, heconsidered my question. ‘Doyou knowwhat,’ he said, ‘if

you’d asked me that a yearago,I’mnotsureIcouldhaveanswered. I certainly don’tread to escape, or as someself-improvement exercise, ifthat’s what you werethinking.’I shrugged. ‘I wasn’t

thinkingthat.’‘I’ve always enjoyed

reading,’ he explained. ‘I’vealwaysfoundmyselfwantingto pick up a book withoutreallyquestioning thereason.

Except last year I read areview of a book by JohnMalkovich.’‘I didn’t know he was a

writer,’Isaid.‘I’m not sure that he is.

The review was by JohnMalkovich,notthebook.’‘Mymistake.’‘Actually now that I come

to thinkof it, I’mpretty sureit was a reviewer pretendingto be John Malkovich.Anyway, the book wasMay

We Be Forgiven by A. M.Homes.’Hepaused. ‘Doyouknowit?’‘Idon’t.’‘No matter. It’s not

important. It’s what he saysin his review that highlightsthe reason I read. He sayseveryoneissodullnowadays.Basically, everyone’s sofrightened of upsetting otherpeople, there are nocharactersleftanymore.Andwhen he sat down to read

MayWeBeForgiven,hewasat last spending time withsomeone interesting. Hefound the main character sointeresting,socompelling,hecouldn’t wait to get back tothe book. In answer to yourquestion, I think that’swhy Iread.’‘Becausepeoplearedull?’‘Yes. You have nice teeth

bytheway.’‘Thankyou.’He realized at this point

that there was not enoughwater in the kettle, by thesound it wasmaking. Fillingit at the sink, he said,casually, ‘So, bailiffs. That’skind of a big deal. How didthathappen?’‘IspentmoremoneythanI

had.AndIwasleftinabitofamessbymyex-husband.Heran up quite a few debts inmyname.’‘Ah, yes. I remember.

Shitty thing todo.Youdon’t

seemtooupsetaboutit,ifyoudon’tmindmysaying.’‘I was. But what’s the

point?Ipickedhim,afterall.At first I spent a lot of timeblaming, back in thebeginning,beforeIrealizeditwasn’tgoingtogetmeoutofthe trouble I was in. No onewasgoingtocomealongandsay, “Do you know what?You are so totally right. It’sall Winston’s fault.” Andbesides, there are a hell of a

lot of people morecompromised thanme. But Ishould have handled it betterthan I did. Anyway,’ I said,‘things are easier now. Theworst is over. I’ve managedtoclimboutoftheholeIwasin and things are starting tolookup.’‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘I

admireyouforthat.’Ilookedaway.‘Doyoulikeyourjob?’he

asked.

‘I like parts of it. I enjoyoffering relief to a person inpain,it’sjustittakesup—’‘Allofyourtime?’‘Yeah.’I went on to explain how

myownclinichadfoldedbutthat I still hankered afterworkingformyselfagainoneday.‘So why don’t you?’ he

asked. ‘Why not just go italoneagain?’‘There isanopening todo

just that, but I’m scared. Imade a hash of it last timeand ended up workingridiculous hours because Icouldn’t say no to people.And then I let them downanyway because of myirresponsibility.’‘You’re not irresponsible,’

he said. ‘You bring up achild, alone, whilst workingfulltime,withverylittlehelpfromanyone,fromwhatIcangather. How is that

irresponsible?’‘That’skindofyoutosay,’

I replied. ‘But people takerather a different viewpointwhen—’Hewavedmywordsaway

with his hand as if to imply:What do they know aboutanything? He said, ‘I readrecently that seventy-one percent of people dislike theirjobs. That’s a lot ofdissatisfied people spendingtheir lives doing something

theydon’tlike.’‘Do you like yours?’ I

asked.‘Not especially, but I only

worktwodaysoutofseven.Ireckon you could do prettymuchanythingfortwodaysaweek. Of course, we weretold that, with the advent ofall the labour-savingdevices,everyone would be on athree-dayweekbynow.Thatnever quite happened,though.’

‘Whydoyouthinkthatis?’‘They need to keep us out

of mischief,’ he said. ‘Whatwould happen if we weresuddenly let loose with allthatfreetime?Therecouldbeanarchy.’ He smiled. ‘Therewill always be some peoplewhowanttoworkallday.Letthem,Isay,andleavetherestof us in peace. Naturally,there are some people whocan’tseemtounderstandwhyI would choose to earn less

and work less. Becausewealthistheonlyindicatorofsuccess nowadays, and soon.’Winston,too,wentthrough

a protracted anti-commercialismphase.Givinglong speeches aboutautonomy, themisunderstoodLuddites, the myth that arewarding life is to be hadthroughhardwork.The trouble was, he still

keptonbuyingstuff.

I asked Henry who hemeant when he said somepeoplehadaproblemwithhischoices,andhereplied,‘ScottElias.’I shiftedmyweight tomy

otherfoot.He said, ‘You’ve met

Scott,Iassume?’‘Hmm-mm, a couple of

times.’‘Total wanker,’ he said. ‘I

can’tunderstandwhyNadinestays with him. Well, I

suppose I can. The kids, andallthat.Butstill.’‘You don’t like him,’ I

said, my tone neutral, myexpression neither one thingnor the other. And hefrowned, before saying,‘What’stolike?’‘I can see how you might

notseeeyetoeye.’‘Idon’tseeeyetoeyewith

him,’hesaid,‘becausehe’sadickhead.’‘Not because he’s loaded?

You’re not jealous of hismoney?’Iaskedplayfully.‘That’s the thing: take

away the money and look atthe man. What’s left?Nothing.Hasheeversaidonefunny or interesting thing inyourcompany?’Ididn’tanswer.‘Imean,whatdoeshedo?’

he said. ‘What does heactually care about? Scott’sgot all thatwealth, andwhatdoes he do with it? Buys

objects.That’sit.’‘You’re suggesting he

shouldsavetheworld?’‘I’m suggesting he could

dosomethinguseful.Theguyshaftseveryonehecomesintocontactwith.’‘Inwhatway?’Iasked.‘In every way. He has to

push everything, he can’t letgo. He can’t stand to lose apenny.’‘Really?’Isaiddoubtfully.

‘He seemed pretty generous

to me. My sister seems tothinkso,anyway.’Henry laughed. ‘Oh yeah,

Scott the nice guy. Scott’llbring the wine, he’ll pay thebill. But, I’m telling you, hedoesn’t put his hand in hispocket unless it’s taxdeductible.He doesn’t spendonepennyofhisownmoney.Everything comes out of hisbusiness. Every so-calledgenerous thing he does goesdownasabusinessexpense.’

I immediately thoughtabout billing Scott forservices rendered. He’d toldme he had a hard timescraping the cash together.Which had been hard tobelieve.‘Hurryupwiththatcoffee,’

Isaid.‘He’s got to beat the

system,’ Henry continued,unabated. ‘He’s a greatexample of greed gone nuts… never enough, never

enough. He takes it all forhimself and he puts nothingback. And he has a wickeddarktemper.‘Honestly,’ said Henry,

‘Scott Elias is never happyunless he’s screwingsomeone.

26

SOIWASabusinessexpense.I had no right to be bitter

about this – what differencediditmakehowScottfundedourencounters?And yet, oddly, I was.

WhatScottreceivedfromme

in the way of ‘services’ wasessentially free. By lying, bycooking the books in thisway,hewasable tofundourencounters with money hewouldhavehadtopayin taxto the InlandRevenue.Sohecouldsleepwithmeasmanytimes as he wished, and, asHenry pointed out, itwouldn’tcosthimapenny.Should I havebeena little

insulted by this? Probablynot.ButIwas.AndIcouldn’t

help but wonder how elseScott manipulated hisfinancial statements to hisownends.I never really bought

Scott’s excuse of beingunable to get enough cashtogether to pay me. Had heset up this invoicingarrangement so that he couldin fact delay paying me? Iwas still waiting to be paidforourlastencounter.Washeholdingback thepaymenton

purpose, so he had morecontrol of the situation? Hadmorecontrolofme?It was now the weekend.

Saturday morning. We wereat George’s swimminglesson,whichwaskindlypaidfor by Dylis. He was levelfive, which meant he couldswimthreestrokes,float,divedown for a brick, but notactually swim very far. Nothis fault, nor the teacher’sactually, it was the result of

the municipal pool closing afewyearsagowhenitranoutof money. Now the childrenof South Lakeland had tolearntoswimatvarioushotel‘spas’. This wasn’t ideal,since the pools weregenerally only ten metreslong and, occasionally, adisgruntled guest wouldobject to sharing the spacewith the kidswhen they hadpaid goodmoney to be here,and the children would have

togetout.Lessonover.Today there was just one

elderly lady doingbreaststroke–headoutofthewater, her body almostvertical, not really goinganywhere but smiling all thesame. She was enjoying thechildren as they tried theirhardest tostayafloatontheirbacks: skinny white torsosbobbing,headscolliding.I sat at the small café bar

area with my laptop open.

Thoughitwasonlytenthirty,there was the smell of chipsand cooking oil rather thanchlorinehangingheavyintheair. At the table next to meweretwomothers.Theywereregulars whom I saw everyother Saturday. One (Gail, Ithink)hadgingerhighlights–thehand-paintedtypeappliedwith a brush; the otherchangedherhaircolour fromweektoweek.Theyspenttheentire lesson hunched over,

faces inches apart, eyesnarrowed, discussing Gail’sdivorce. Occasionally, I’dhear the tell-tale words andphrases that surrounded abreak-up (Relate, co-parenting … and: ‘I made aroastdinnertwiceaweekforthat ungrateful bastard. Theylive on fish fingers whenthey’rewithher.Lazybitch’)soIknewtogivethemawideberth.I craned my neck upon

hearing spluttering, a childhaving inhaled too muchpool. When I saw it wasn’tGeorge, I went back topunching inmybankdetails,havingtappedintothehotel’sfreeWi-Fi.Mybalancewasthesame.Scott’s last payment had

stillnotarrived.Ichewedonmythumbnail.

Itwasn’t like I could call upthe company secretary: ‘Thatinvoice I sent you?The fake

one?Yes,canyoupleasepayit?’And I didn’t want to call

Scott.Iwashoping to avoidhim

for a few days. Let the dustsettle after my date withHenry.WhichScotthadbeennone too happy about, and Isensed he might want tointerrogatemeoverit.Henry had pressed to see

me again and I had agreed.I’dsaidIwouldcallhimbut,

asyet,Ihadn’tpickedupthephone.I liked him. I really liked

him. But the timing was oh-so-shitty. Why couldn’t hehave entered my life in amonth’stime,whenIwasridof Scott? When my debtswererepaid?I’d gone a little quiet on

Henrytowardstheendof thedate, the enormity of thedeception crashing throughmeasHenryprattledonabout

Scott,completelyoblivioustomystateofmind.He’dleft,Isuspected, somewhatbefuddled by my suddenremoteness, perhapsmisinterpreting it as anaversiontowardshim–whichcouldn’tbefurtherfromwhatIwasfeeling.I refreshed the page now,

somehow hoping to see themoneymagicallyappear.Concentrating on the

screen,Ididn’tnoticeGeorge

approach until he was at theside of me: shouldershunched over, shivering,hopping fromone foot to theother. ‘I need to use thebathroom,’hesaid.‘Sogo.’‘YousaidIwasn’ttogoin

thereonmyown.Yousaid Icould only go in there whenyou’rethereorthereareotherkids.’That’s right, I did. I

apologized and got up. I’d

forgottenthat.Youcan’tevenlet your children use the looalone any more since beingtold they can be assaulted insupermarket bathrooms,swimming-pool changingrooms.Did our parents realize

howeasytheyhadit?‘Go out to play and don’t

come back till tea time,’ mymother would say. ‘There’sfifty pence for chips andgravy. Don’t buy sweets.’

And that was just about theextentofherparenting.‘You’ll have to go in the

women’s,’ItoldGeorge,andhescowled.‘I don’t want to go in

there.’‘Well, I can’t go in the

men’s.’‘Why?’‘Because they’ll be naked.

Go in the women’s, and bequick. You’re missing yourlesson.’

Hescootedoff,andIfoundmyselfwondering,notforthefirst time, after all the recentcoverage in the press, if theincidence of paedophilesamongst celebrities washigher than in the generalpopulation. Or were theysimply representative of thepopulationasawhole?Or, and this was my

growing suspicion,was theresomething present in thepsyche of men who were

drawntolifeinthepubliceyethatalsopredisposed themtowant to have sex withchildren? Someone shouldreallydoastudy.‘Alldone,’saidGeorge.‘Youwashyourhands?’‘Yes.’‘Really?’‘I’mgoinginthepool,’he

argued, and got away fromme before I could send himback, doing that half-run,half-stepthingyoudoonwet

floortiles.Iwatched him skid a little

ashereachedthewater,eageras he was to get into thewarmth again, and my heartjuddered.Staysafe,baby.Myprayer.ThethingIsaidwhenI felt powerless to protecthim.Two weeks ago, I’d said

the same prayer when I’dallowedhimtoleavethepoolwith a child I knew littleabout. Of course George

knew everything about him,having spent the whole twodays previous playing withhim.His grandfather broughthim to his swimming lesson,the family were new to thearea, and theywere keen forthe child, Leif, to makefriends.The grandfather was

affable,friendly,anearringinhis left ear, a semi-circularscar on his chin – an oldglassing incident, perhaps?

George had hold ofmy shirtandwaspullingatit,beggingme to let him go rather thanspend a boring afternoonalone with me. I wascornered.Ismiledawkwardlyat Granddad, trying to thinkof an excuse and feeling hotwithshameat thesametime,becauseIwas totally judgingthismanonhisappearance.What do you do in this

situation?‘Okay, you can go,’ I

eventually said, reluctantly,and spent the afternoonsayingtheprayer,mymantra,overandover.Later that night, my fears

wererealized.George returned home

withdrawn anduncommunicative, hewouldn’t eat his meal, andplayed in his room so as nottobenearme.We’dhad‘thetalk’ every so often … Ifanyoneevertriestotouchyou

in your underpants … Ifanyoneever tellsyou tokeepa secret from me. But notknowing exactly theseriousness of what I wastrying to convey, Georgealwaysbrusheditofffastandsaidsomethingsilly.I knocked on his door.

‘Everythingallright?’He nodded, without

lookingup.‘Can I get you a drink?’ I

askedhim.

‘No,thankyou.’‘George? Did something

happentoday?’Hedidn’tanswer.‘Did Leif’s granddad get

crosswithyou?’‘No,’hesaidquietly.‘Didhe…didhetryto’–I

paused, trying to find theright words – ‘did he try totouchyouatall?’‘No.’‘Was there anyone else at

thehouse?’

‘Leif’sbrother.’‘Andhowoldishe?’‘Idon’tknow.’‘Guess,’ I said. ‘Younger

thanyou?Olderthanyou?’‘Younger.’‘Anyotheradults?’‘Hisnanna.’‘Andwhatwasshelike?’‘Prettyold.’‘Okay, George, listen.

What exactly happened overthere,becauseIcanseetherewas something, and I’m not

leavinguntilyoutalktome.’My voice was shaking. I

wastryingtoremaincalmforhissake,butIjustcouldn’t.He scratched at a scab on

hisknee,reluctanttotalk.‘George!’Ipressed.‘Talk.’Andhetookabreath.‘Well,’ he began, hesitant,

not reallywanting to. ‘Well,’he said, ‘you knowPokémon?’Iclosedmyeyes.Fellback

againstthewallinrelief.

‘Ido,’Isaid.‘Well, Leif has got, like,

thirty-three figures, Mum…and…and,well,whenIsawthemIwasjealous.’JesusChrist.See this ishow itgotyou.

This is how fucked up youbecame, paranoia plaguingyoureverythought.‘I’ll get you some more

Pokémon, love,’ I told him,and then I went and downedtwoshotsofbrandy.

The children were nowjumpingin–starjumpsforiftheyeverfoundthemselvesinan emergency situation,jumping from a boat perhapsintobrackishwater,unabletosee the bottom. The teacherwas explaining theimportance of slapping downhard with their arms as theyhit the surface, trying toimpress the reasons to avoidgoingdeep.Itwas prettymuch lost on

thekids, though,who took itas an opportunity to try tosplasheachother–legally.I refreshed thepage again.

Still no money. And then itdawned on me that sincetoday was Saturday therewould be no bank transferuntilMondayattheearliest.Idly, I gazed out of the

windowtothehotelcarpark,wondering if there wasanythingIcouldfeasiblydoifthat money didn’t show up,

when my attention wascaught by a black RangeRover.Black Range Rovers were

commonplace. At themoment,maybenot somuchas white, but they werepopular around here all thesame. Except this was anenhanced Range Rover, anOverfinch Long Wheelbase.Over two hundred thousandpounds’ worth of car. Andtherefore not so

commonplace.It was Scott’s Range

Rover.I slid down a little in my

seat so that only my eyespeered over the top of mylaptopandwatchedasthecarcrawled around the car park,asifsearchingforsomething.There were plenty of emptyspaces,sohewasn’ttryingtopark.Hebegan a second circuit.

He hadn’t yet spotted me

observinghim.PerhapsIwasinvisiblefromoutthereifthesunwasontheglass.Whywashehere?Howdid

heknowIwashere?But then ifhewas looking

for me, he would havespotted my car immediately.TheJeepwasbytheentrance.And even if he hadn’tmemorized my registration,he would know it was mineonaccountofthedentonthebonnet, causedby a runaway

supermarkettrolley.Soifhewasn’tlookingfor

me,whowashelookingfor?Myhandhoveredovermy

phone.Thiswascreepy.DidIhavethenerve?DidI

allowhimtoexplainhimself?There were five rings

before I saw his brake lightsilluminateandheansweredatthefarendofthecarpark.‘Hey,’ I said. ‘You free to

talk?’‘Sure.’

His voice was lazy. Acover-up, as I’d not heardhim speak slowly unlessactually dozing off. Mystomach spasmed as Iwatched him edge the carforwardalittle.‘There’s a bit of a

problem,’Isaid.‘Whatkindofproblem?’‘TheinvoiceIsent.It’snot

been paid and I’m stillwaitingforthemoney.’‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Oh, that is

surprising.Deborahisusuallyveryprompt.Sheshouldhavesent it on Wednesday. I’lllook into it foryousoonas Icanandmakesureit’ssortedout.’‘Wonderful. Sorry to be a

nuisance,but,youknow.’‘Noneedtoapologize.You

wantyourmoney,Iget that.’Therewasnowaharderedgeto his voice. He released thebrakesoncemoreandmovedthe car off to the right. If he

continued along that coursehe would again come rightpastwhereIwassitting.Iswallowed.‘So, you’re okay, then?’ I

said.‘Champion.’‘What are you up to? Are

youdoinganythingtoday?’The nose of the car came

intoview.Through the windscreen I

gotaclearpictureofhim,andmy breath stuttered in my

chest as I feared hemay seeme.‘Nothing much,’ he said

casually, while his eyesdarted left and right, left andright, scanning the parkedcars.‘Justreadingthepapers,catchinguponafewbitsandpiecesathome.’His lie sent a shiver right

upthelengthofmyspine.‘Sounds good,’ I

murmured.‘Yeah,relaxingandhaving

abitofarecharge,’headded.‘Arecharge,’Irepeated,as

he paused now by an oldpiece-of-shit Peugeot furtheralong.Thecarwassimilar toHenry’s. Same colour. Samemodel.Scottsurveyedthecarfora

full ten seconds beforeanswering.He thought the car was

Henry’s.He thought Iwasatthis hotel, with Henry. Scottwas checking up onme. But

howdidheknowIwasevenhereatall?‘Listen,’ he said,

distracted, ‘can I call youback? I can hear Nadine onher way through from thekitchen. I need to get off thephone.’‘Noproblem,’Itoldhim.AndIwatchedashehitthe

accelerator and sped off outofthecarpark.

27

THAT AFTERNOON SAW thearrival of a new dining tableand a new cooker – a free-standing electric ovenwith aceramic hob on top.Nothingfancy, but it was clean. AndsinceI tendedtosubscribeto

the late Clarissa DicksonWright’s view that one canmake perfectly good food ona two-ring hotplate, I wasthrilled to see it replace thegrease-covered monstrosityVince had donated. Evenafter I’d given it a thoroughspraywithMrMuscle, I stillcouldn’t bring myself to useit. The burnt fat gave off anodourofranciditythatlodgedin the nasal linings – muchlike when all those animal

carcasseswereburnedduringthe foot-and-mouth epidemicof2001.Thatsmellstayedinthe air, and in your nose, formonths.I hadn’t expected to miss

cooking. Preparingmeals forGeorge at the end of a longday had long since lost itsappeal. But when faced withthe prospect of being unabletocookanythingatall,well,Icouldn’t wait to get back inthekitchen.

Petra and Vince werecomingover,aswellasClara,andsoIgotonwithpreparingmy crowd pleaser: spaghetticarbonara. Vince instructedme to leave thewine tohim,and even though I tried toprotest, explaining that Iwasn’tasstrappedforcashasIhadbeenoflate,heinsisted.He had a new Portuguesewhite – F.P. Branco, whichhe’dbeengiddyformetotrysincediscoveringitrecently.

I roughly chopped sometomatoes, harvested byDennisthatmorning.IinvitedbothCeliaandDennisalong,too,sincePetraandCeliagotalongwell,eventhoughPetracomplainedthatCeliabecameterribly boastful about herfamily after two glasses ofwine (Celia would have saidthe same about Petra, if sheweren’t my sister). But theyhad tickets to the LakelandBook of the Year Awards.

One of Celia’s book grouphad self-published a slimbiography of William andDorothy Wordsworth, whichCelia said was very wellwrittenbutnotreallymykindofthing,sobestavoided.To the tomatoes I added

basil (again from Dennis),olive oil, seasoning and asplash of sherry vinegar,before making a plain greensalad for the kids. Georgewas positively repulsed by

the ideaofa rawtomato,notthat it stopped him dousingeverythinginketchup.As well as now being in

possessionofakitchenfulloffood for the first time inmonths, I had wine glasses,cups, twonewsaucepansandplates that matched. I’d alsosplurged on new school poloshirts for George, bathtowels, tea towels, andbeddingforbothofourbeds.The school holidays were

almost upon us. It would beoneofthelastquieteveningsbefore the adjoining holidaycottage became filled with aprocession of noisy families.Families shouting at eachother after dark when they’dhad too much to drink,realizing too late that theydidn’t actually like spendingthisamountof timewithoneanother.‘So,’ said Petra, as we sat

outonthepatio.

‘So?’Imirroredback.‘So, howwasHenry?’ she

said.‘Bywhichyoumean?’She shot me a look as

though to say, Not how washeinbed,youidiot.‘Imean,doyoulikehim?’

shesaid.‘He seems nice enough,’ I

replied,teasing.‘Nice enough for what? A

fling? A relationship?Marriage?’

‘Oh,marriagedefinitely,’Ireplied,deadpan.‘Have you heard that

Hollywood now has its ownmarital version of the 5:2diet?’ saidPetra, and I askedhertoexplain.‘Instead of eating for five

days and fasting for twodays,’shesaid,‘youlivewithyourspouseforfivedaysandhavetwodaysoff.’Vincelookedinterested.‘Or is it the other way

around?’ she said. Petrathought for a moment,working through the logisticsof it. ‘Yes, it must be theother way around. Five daysoff,twodayson.’‘Likeafireman,’Isaid.‘Exactly,’ she replied.

‘Celebrity couples say itmakes their marriages workmuch better, and it’s morefulfilling.’‘That’s because they’re

essentially dating,’ said

Vince.‘Wheredidyoureadthis?’

Iaskedher.‘A magazine in the staff

room. Not a trashy one. Thehead doesn’t allow those. ItwasMarieClaire. Or one ofthose thinking women’smagazines where the articlesare way too long … anddepressing.’Vince said to Petra that

they already had their ownversion of the 5:2. She

became cross with him oversomething he had no ideaabout, and then proceeded toignore him for two days.‘Worksperfectlywell for us,doesn’tit,love?’Petra pretended to swat

him away and told him tofetchsomemorewaterforthetable.Once Vince was in the

kitchen out of earshot, Iremarkedthattheyseemedtobeonspeakingtermsagain.

‘We’refine,’shesaid.‘Whatwasitabout?’‘Honestly?’ she asked.

‘Dissatisfactiondressedupassomethingelse,Isuppose.Doyoueverlookatyourlifeandthinkyouweremeanttohavemore?’‘Moreofwhat?’‘Moreofeverything.’‘Petra, you do have

everything.’‘I know. I have all of the

important stuff. And I’m not

being ungrateful, I’m reallynot. It’s just, sometimes, Ilook at other people and Ithink—’‘You’re talking about

Nadine.’Sheepishly, she admitted,

‘That’s wrong, I know,’ shesaid. ‘Nadine is a wonderfulperson and she andScott areso good together, and theydidn’t always have all thatwealth. Sometimes envy getsthebetterofme, though,and

I get annoyed abouteverything. I get so bloodyangry.’I stopped eating and held

her gaze. ‘Vince is a greatguy,Petra.’Shenodded.‘I’mabitchto

takeitoutonhim,aren’tI?’‘Howwouldyoufeel ifhe

ignored you for not beinggood enough? Not beingprettyenough?Richenough?’She threwme an outraged

look as though to say,He…

would…not…dare.‘Precisely,’Isaid.Shetoldmeshe’dtrytobe

kinderwithhim. ‘Youknow,Henry might be a great guyfor you. Nadine absolutelyadores him,’ she prattled on,beforepausingandglaringather daughter. ‘Clara, that iswaytoomuchpastayouhaveon your fork. You reallymustn’tshovelyourfoodintoyourmouthlikethat.’IcaughtGeorge’seyeashe

surreptitiously removed halfofthespaghettiloadedonhisfork.A few weeks ago I’d

caught him twirling the forkin the centre of the plate tosee if it was possible to gethisentireservingontoitand,incredibly, he managed it. Ididn’t reprimand him, as hepicked the whole lot up andchewedbitsoff,muchasyouwould a toffee apple. It tookmeback towhenPetra and I

were kids and we’d havecompetitions to see whocould pile the most chips onourforks.I remember Petra winning

onmostoccasions.‘Nadine is very protective

of Henry,’ Petra continuednow, ‘because of whathappened.’I stopped chewing. ‘What

happened?’‘Hedidn’ttellyou?’‘Idon’tknowifhetoldme

or not, because I don’t knowwhatyou’retalkingabout.’Petra lowered her eyes to

her plate and dropped hervoice to all but a whisper.‘Hissondied.’‘Oh,’Isaid,utterlyfloored.

‘Ididn’tknowthat.’There was a moment of

silence when she let meprocess what had just beensaid. Then she went on. ‘Itwas a swimming-poolaccident.Hegotsuckedintoa

faulty filter when divingdownforpennies.’‘Oh,God,’Isaid.‘Terriblething,’saidPetra.

‘His wife took her eyes offtheboytohelpcleanupafteraparty.Theirmarriagedidn’tsurvive after that.Understandable,really.’Petraputhercutleryat the

side of her plate. ‘Do youmindifIleavethis?’shesaid,andIshookmyhead.I’dlostmy appetite, too, I told her.

‘Nadine said that’s whyHenrycamebackhere,’Petraexplained. ‘He couldn’t bearto be amongst people whoknew. He needed a cleanbreak.’‘Where did it happen?’ I

asked.‘Itwasatafriend’shouse.

He and his wife were inLondon for work. He had ahigh-powered job to do withchemical something-or-other.’

‘Engineering,’Isaid.‘That’sright.’Petragulped

down the remainder of herwine.‘Should I open another?’

Vince asked, coming backoutside.His tone was gentle,

fatherly. He said it in a wayyou would ask a person iftheyneededanothericepack,anotherpainkiller.‘Please,’Petrareplied.‘Do

youminddrivinghome?’she

asked, and Vince said hedidn’t.With her glass refreshed,

Petra leaned in towards me.‘Henrydidn’tmentionanyofthistoyou?’‘Nothing,’Ireplied.‘Hedidn’thintatwhathad

happenedtohim?Youdidn’tdetectthesadnessatall?’‘Quitethecontrary.Hewas

quite exuberant, prettyforceful in his ideas. For thewhole of the evening hewas

ina jollymood.Although—’Isaidandhesitated.Droppedmy gaze as I remembered.‘There was one momentwhen there was something…’Ifelt thestingofshameas

itcamebacktomefully.‘Hewantedtocomein–to

come into the house – and Ididn’twanthimto.’‘Whynot?’‘Various reasons. I didn’t

wanthimtomeet’–Ipaused,

tilting my head in George’sdirection–‘sotherewasthat.Andofcourse,thehouseisadisaster, and I just didn’twanthiminside–youknow,judgingme.‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘he

thought Iwas being over thetop about him not meetingGeorge, and I kind of blewmy top at him. Saying that,since he wasn’t a father, I’dappreciate it if he kept hisparentingadvicetohimself.’

Petrawinced.‘I know,’ I said. ‘I’ll

apologize.’Quite unaware of our

conversation, Clara andGeorgewere talkingamongstthemselves at the end of thetable.‘Youtwofinishedwithyour plates?’ I asked, andGeorge said yes,whileClaralooked toPetra to check if itwas okay to leave what wasleft of hermeal. Petra didn’tnotice, lost in thought as she

was,soImoutheditwasfine.‘Scoot,’ I told them quietly.‘Go and play. I’ll call youwhendessertisready.’We sat in silence, each of

us watching the kids at theendofthegarden.Theywerepointing to the wild rabbits,andgiggling,GeorgemakingClaralaughwithwhateverhewassaying.‘Just imagine,’ said Petra

softly, gesturing to thechildren, ‘just imagine. That

poor,poorguy,’andhereyesbegantofill.BothVinceandInoddedwithoutanswering.Theminutespassed.Eventually,Igaveherhand

asqueeze.‘Iloveyou,Petra,’I said. ‘I don’t tell you oftenenough. You’re such a goodsistertomeandIloveyou.’‘Oh, honey,’ she replied,

overwhelmed. She searchedfor a tissue before blowinghernose.‘Iloveyou,too.’And then, between the

tears, she said, ‘Vincent, youtellthosechildrentogetbackover here right this instant. Ineed to hold on to them.Tight.’

28

WHEN I ARRIVED at work onMondaymorningtherewasafamiliar vehicle in the carpark: the black Fordbelonging to the twodetectives. Wayne hadn’tbeeninworknowforaweek.

Itfeltlikerain.Theairhadthatthickqualitythatmadeithard to breathe. I closed thesunroofandgotout,makingmywayover to the driver’s-side door of the Ford. DSAspinallloweredthewindow.‘Morning,’ she said. Herpartner was finishing asausage roll, dusting off hismoustache with the paperbag. The car smelled ofbutterypastryandsage.‘Goodmorning,’Ireplied.

‘Time for a quick word?’DSAspinallasked.‘Justletmegetopenedup.

Givemetwominutes?’‘Much obliged,’ she

replied, and raised thewindow. They remainedinside the car, as requested,and by the time they enteredtheclinic Ihad thekettleon,hadremovedthepost,openedthe window in reception asthe air was a little stale, andwasmoreorlessready.

‘Anynews?’Iasked.‘Wayne Geddes is

officiallymissing.’‘Hewasn’tbefore?’Isaid.‘Not exactly. Mr Geddes

wasaccusedoftheftfromhisemployers.Theyreported thetheft to the police, and wewere looking into it forthem.’I got the impression from

her tone that the smallamount of missing moneyhad not exactly been high

priority. That she had notexpected theft to turn into amissing-personcase.‘So you haven’t found the

money?’Isaidshakily.‘No.Andwehaven’tfound

WayneGeddeseither.’‘There really is no sign of

him?’ I asked, perplexed,because where the hell washe?Sure,I’dexpectedWaynetolielowforafewdays.Getover his embarrassment, gethis head together and so

forth, but now this womanwas telling me he wasnowheretobefound.He wouldn’t abandon his

house and take off. I wasalmostcertainofthat.Hehada lot of equity in that house.He would be leaving behindeverything he had. Hissecurity for the future. Itdidn’tmakeanysense.‘His mobile phone hasn’t

beenused,’DSAspinallsaid.‘What about his credit

cards?’Iasked.She shook her head.

‘Although that’s not unusualfor a person wanting todisappear.They’reawarethatmost retailers have camerasabove the tills, as do mostcashpoints. Often there is aperiod of inactivity on thatfront for up to a month.Especially if they have asurplus of cash – which webelieveMrGeddeshas.’But he hadn’t. That cash

hadlonggone.‘By the way, the stretch

you recommended has beenworking,’shesaid.‘Sorry?’‘Upward-facing dog?’ she

said. ‘The yoga stretch? Myneck’smuch improved. I feltthe benefit straight away. Ican reverse the car nowwithoutithurting.’‘Oh–good,’ I stammered.

‘Goodtohear.Listen,didyougotoWayne’shouse?’

‘Wedid.After tospeakingtoyoupreviously.’DSQuigley,whohadbeen

silent up until now, held hisnotepad in the arm’s-lengthposition of the long-sightedand agreed that’s what theyhaddone.‘And,obviously,hewasn’t

thereorelseyouwouldn’tbehere,’ I said. ‘What did youfind?’‘As far as we could tell

there was no one home and

—’‘You didn’t go inside?’ I

asked,astonished.‘Wewerenotauthorizedto

do so. Therewas nowarrantat that time, Mrs Toovey.We’re not allowed to breakin.’‘Washiscarthere?’‘Ibelieveso.’Again, a quick glance to

her partner, who, after amoment, concurred with herstatement.

‘So,whatwe’d like to do,Mrs Toovey, is take a lookaround here, see if we can’tcome up with something topointusintherightdirection.Thiswashisdesk,wasit?’‘Yes, this iswhereWayne

wouldspendhistime.’‘Anyotherareasyouthink

wouldberelevant?’‘The kitchen,’ I said. ‘He

dida lotofbrewingup.Andhewasinchargeofthestock.To be honest, he had his

handsineverything.’Where had Wayne gone

after I hightailed it onSaturday? My memory ofleaving the house wassketchy at best. There werepockets of time that weresimply missing. Hadsomething happened that Icouldn’t recall? Had I donesomething to Wayne that Icouldn’trecall?Irememberedwaking and there being nosign of Wayne. But what if

thatwasn’tcorrect?WhatifIhad simply blanked out hispresence?Christ.‘What time do the clients

arrive?’DSAspinallasked.‘Patients. My first arrives

infifteenminutes.’They started poking

around. I suspected theywould find little of interestbut didn’t quibble all thesame. They asked a fewfurtherquestions:DidWayne

mention any financialdifficulties?Didhetalkaboutmeetinganyonestraight fromwork on the Friday he waslast seen, or over theweekend? Did he talk aboutleavingthearea?No,noandno.When it seemed as though

they had finished, I askedwhyWaynewasnowclassedasofficiallymissing,whenhewasn’t before. What hadchangedexactly?

‘His cousin,’ replied DSAspinall. ‘He’d not heardfrom Mr Geddes and so lethimself into the property.Once inside, he becameworried. He said it was veryout of character for MrGeddesnottobeintouch.’‘So his cousin doesn’t

think Wayne cleared offwithout telling anyone?’ Iasked.‘He says not. He says Mr

Geddeswouldneverhaveleft

without making properarrangements with him.Arrangements to takecareofhisfish.’‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Of course.

Thefish.’‘Yes,’ she replied,without

lookingmyway.‘They’realldead.’

29

WAYNE’S DISAPPEARANCE HADthrown me completely offbalanceandso,eventhoughIdidwanttocallHenry,Ikeptpickingupmymobile, goingto contacts, and thenbottlingout. I was being a coward

about it. I just couldn’t seemtofindtherightwords.Henryhadn’tbeenintouch

either, since our date of lastweek. I think after his smallspeech about Scott Elias, Ihad clammed up a little andgiven off an abashed airwhich may have beenmisinterpretedasdisinterest.When I say I may have

donethis,Imeandefinitely.Henrymust have left with

the impression I didn’t care

forhim.But I couldn’t leave it like

that.Notnow.He picked up on the tenth

ring.‘Henry,’Isaid.‘Roz,’hereplied.‘I didn’t think you were

goingtoanswer.’‘I didn’t think you were

goingtocall.’‘Henry—’ I began and

stopped.‘Whatisit,Roz?’

I tookabreath. ‘Petra toldme about your son,’ I said,‘andI justwantedtosaythatI’mreallysorry.Iwasabruptand insensitive on Thursday,back at the house, and Iwanted to apologize. Iwouldn’t have said what Isaid about not wanting yourparenting advice if I’dknown,and—’‘You didn’t know,’ he cut

in, his tone brusque but notunkind.‘Noharmdone.’

‘Ifeelterrible.’‘Ididn’twantyoutoknow.

Not straight away, anyway.And it was six years ago, soyou’rehardlyatfault.’Therewasasilence.I could hear Henry’s

breath, heavy, as though hewaswalking.‘What was he like?’ I

asked quietly, after amoment, and Henry didn’tspeak. Eventually, he gave asmall, humourless laugh and

instantly I regretted myquestion.‘Sorry,’Isaid.‘Henry,I’m

sosorry,Ishouldn’thave—’‘No,’ he replied. Then he

sighed. ‘No, it’s not that.Noone ever asks, that’s all. Noone ever asksme about him.Theyaskhow I cope.How Iget through the days. “Howdo you go on,” they say,“whentheveryworstthinginthe world has happened?”They make it all about me.

No one ever wants to knowaboutElliot.’‘It’s because they’re

frightened,Henry.’‘Iknow.’‘Elliot,’ I said. ‘Tell me

aboutElliot.’‘Ilovedhim.’His breathing quietened

and I sensed he had stoppedwalking now. Paused rightwherehewasonthestreettothink about his son. I didn’ttalk.Iwaited.

‘Look,’ he said, ‘do youwanttomeetup?BecauseI’dlike to tell you about him.Fuck,’ he said emphatically,‘I’d really like to talk abouthim. About everything. Idon’tgettodothatanymore.AndIknowit’sprobablymyown doing, but I feel like Ineed to sometimes…Ican’ttalk toNadine. She cries toomuch.’‘Sure,’ I said softly. ‘I’d

likethat,Henry.’

We got together two dayslater. I had no babysitter,Winston was in Newquay –his mother pretended not toknow where he was, until Itold her I didn’t want anymoney out of him. Then sheadmitted he’d taken off withtheblondegirlwiththedirty,matted hair (dreads) who’dbeenworkingat thecampsitefor the summer. ‘He’s backFriday,’ she assured me.Anyway, it wasn’t exactly a

date that I’d scheduled withHenry, so he called at thehouse, and we walkedtogether to the swings withGeorge and his friend Ollie,whohadstayedoverfortea.Theboyskickeda football

around and Henry and I satononeofthepicnicbenches.I’d asked Henry if it wasokay to bring George along,sensitive to the fact that hewas here to talk about hisown son, and he’d frowned,

answering with, ‘Well, whatelseareyougoingtodowithhim?’Wewatchedtheboysfora

while.Georgewasnonaturaland had little control of theball. Awoman in her fortieskeptsendinghimblacklookseach time it went anywherenear her toddler. I pretendednot to be aware and turnedmyattentiontoHenry.‘NowthatI’mhereIdon’t

knowwheretostart,’hesaid.

I toldhimnottotalkatallifhedidn’t feel like it. Iwashappytohavesomeonetositwith. Iwas happy to be herewith him. Usually, I camealone.‘He’s a good kid,’ Henry

said, nodding towardsGeorge, who was about totakeacorner.‘Yeah…didElliotplay?’‘I tried to get him into it,

buthehadnointerest.’‘SameasGeorge,’Isaid.

‘His granddad wasdevastated,’ Henry said,smilingatthememory.‘And George’s,’ I said.

‘My dad’s a big BoltonWanderersfan,andhisfatherbefore him. He was kind ofgutted George couldn’t careless. He’s over it now, Ithink.’‘Yeah, my dad was the

same,he—’Somehow,whentakingthe

corner, George had managed

tokicktheballbehindhim.‘Excuse me!’ came the

shrill voice of the nearbymother. She set off, stridingtowardsus,abouttogiveusapiece of hermind. ‘Iwonderif you would mind tellingthoseboysthatI’dappreciateit if theykept thatballunder—’‘Lads,’ I yelled over to

GeorgeandOllie,‘playattheother end of the pitch.’Theyobliged without complaint,

and I ignored the woman,turning back to Henry. ‘Youweresaying?’‘Nicelydone.’‘I’m well practised. There

are a lot of parents who getoutraged rather easily aroundhere. They don’t seem tothink that theiroffspringwilleventuallygrowupintonine-year-oldsaswell.’‘Irememberthetype,’said

Henry, ‘the full-on parentswho behave as though the

parks were built especiallyfor them.They used to driveme nuts, going on all theequipment,talkingnonstoptotheir kid, encouraging –Christ, clapping – the wholeAren’t I a fantastic parent?bullshit.’I nodded in agreement.

‘Theymakeyoufeelcrapforreading a newspaper whenyou shouldbe engagingwithyourkid.’‘Should you be engaging

with your kid at everymoment, do you think?’ heasked.‘No,doyou?’‘It’s definitely weird,’ he

said.‘Anyway,whatwerewetalkingabout?Football?’‘Yourdad,’Isaid.‘Oh,yeah,’hesaid,andhis

expression turned once morereflective.‘How has he coped with

thelossofagrandchild?’‘Better than Helena’s

parents,’hesaid.‘Helenaisyourwife?’Henodded.‘Was.’‘Doyoukeepintouchwith

them?Helena’sparents?’‘I call every couple of

weeks, just to check in.Helena doesn’t know. She’spretty heavily medicated, sotheylookafterher.I triedto,but she didn’t want mearoundintheend.’‘Sheblamesyou?’‘She blames herself. She

wasn’tatfault,butitmadenodifference. She blamesherself and, ultimately, I’mnot exactly sure whathappened to us. I couldn’tseem to help her, and shedidn’t want me near her, soherparentsaskedmetomoveaway.Reluctantly,though–itwasalastresort.ItellpeopleI couldn’t bear to be aroundanyone that knew about theaccident, but it wasn’t that.My wife couldn’t bear to

havemearoundanylonger.Itried todowhatwasbest forher.’Inodded.There wasn’t really

anything I could say. Theworst thing in the world hadhappened. His marriage hadfallenapartasa result.Therewerenowordsofconsolation.‘Thank you for asking

aboutElliot,’hesaidsoftly.‘We all need to talk about

ourkids.’

‘Mostpeople,evenfriends,assume I’d hate to talk. Thatit’sthelastthingI’dwant.’Ihesitated,notexactlysure

how to answer. ‘I’m noexpert,’Isaid,‘butthepeopleIknowwho’velostachilddowant to talk. Rather thancausing pain, it seems tobringsomecomfort.’He clasped his hands

togetherandnodded.I said, ‘You should see

your face, by the way, when

you talk about him. Youbecome a different person.Yourwholefaceshines.’‘Itdoes?’‘Yeah,’Isaid.‘Itdoes.’The boys were edging

closertothissideofthepitch.I glanced at thewomanwiththe toddler, who wasstanding, hands on hips,waiting for me to reprimandthem,soIdidn’t.‘IhadthefeelingIsaidthe

wrong thing the other

evening,’ said Henry. ‘IthoughtI’dannoyedyouand,thoughIreallywantedtocall,I didn’t think you’d want tohearfrommeagain.’‘Youdidn’tannoyme.’‘No?’Helookeddubious.‘The last few weeks

haven’t exactly been plainsailing.AndIsuppose itwasjustthefall-outfromthat.’‘Anything I can help

with?’heasked.‘Thanks,butit’sover.’

He went to say somethingfurther and then changed hismind, sensing, perhaps, thatwhatever had been troublingmeIwasn’twillingtoshare.‘I think that’s why I was

drawntoyou,’hesaid,afteramoment, reaching across andtakingmy hand. ‘You know,whenwefirstmet?’‘During the insurance

assessment?’ I asked,surprised.He went rueful. ‘I like to

playmycardsclose,’hesaid.‘But I knew almost straightawaythatyouwouldn’ttrytofix me. You had your ownshitgoingon,soyouweren’tgoing to try and makeeverything better. Or askstupid fucking questionsabout how I feel … I wasattractedtothat.’I smiled at him. ‘How do

youfeel,Henry?’‘Notsobad,actually.’

WedroppedOlliebackathismother’s and walked home,George carrying the footballrather than attempting todribbleitalongthepavement.Vincehad leftabottleof thePortuguesewhiteinthefridgeon Saturday, so I opened it,pouring out two glasses,whilst Henry kicked the ballaround in the back gardenwithGeorge.I watched from the open

window.

Henry had an easy waywith him. He wasn’t out toimpress,nordidhetry togetGeorge to like him. He wascasual. After a minute or soHenrypickedup theballandsaidtoGeorge,‘Youwant todo something else?’ andGeorge nodded. Henry toldhim he didn’t really likefootball either and I sawGeorge smile coyly inresponse.Then the two of them sat

on the edge of the patio,shoulder to shoulder, and fora second I got a glimpse ofwhatlifecouldbelike.Aglimpseofafuture.

30

THE TEXT READ: ‘Are youfree?’Ireplied:‘For?’Scottwrote:‘Theusual???’Me: ‘I’ve still not been

paidforlasttime…’And of course, then, he

called.It was now Thursday

morning and I’d beenavoidingScottpartlybecauseof Henry partly because ofmy unease at his presence atthe swimming pool, butmostly because I knew Ineeded to end thearrangement and I was toonervoustofacehim.I’d sent Scott a couple of

innocuous texts, given him agentle nudge to chase up the

remaining money, and he’dreplied, tellingmehewasonto it; and again later, sayingthey’dhadproblemswiththecomputingsystematwork. Itwas all sorted out now,moneyon itsway,andsoonandsoforth.Butithadn’tarrived.‘Roz, huge apologies,’

ScottsaidbreathlesslywhenIpickedup,‘Ihadnoideayouwere still waiting. I’ll drawout the cash. I’m terribly

embarrassed. I hate owingmoney.’‘That’s okay,’ I said

evenly.‘Money’snotastightasitoncewas.’‘No,’ he laughed. ‘You’ll

have no further use for mesoon. I’ll have to come upwith some other way to lureyouback.’I laughed along with him,

though when I looked at myreflectionIwasn’tsmiling.‘So,howiseverything?’he

asked. ‘You’re still busy atwork,Ipresume?’‘Always.Youknowhowit

is.I’vehadanoffer,actually,togobackonmyown.’‘Oh?’‘Yes,fromapatient.Aguy

I’ve known for years hasoffered me premises.Affordable premises.And hedoesn’t really want anymoneyupfront,sothere’snogreatriskinvolved.’Scottwassilent.

‘Scott?’‘Sorry, sorry, I got

distractedthereforamoment.That’s simply wonderfulnews, Roz. I’m delighted foryou.’ His words soundedhollow. ‘When will you getgoingonthisnewventure?’‘A few weeks, I think.

There are some renovationsthatneedtobecompleted,butitshouldn’ttaketoolong.’‘Excellent.Andwhatabout

Henry? How are things

workingoutonthatfront?’‘Okay,’ I said, non-

committal.‘Do you see it going

anywhere?’Strange how people think

they have a right to know. Iwouldn’t dream of askinghowaperson’smarriagewasgoing, or their relationshipwiththeirmother.Though I did suspect

Scott’s inquiryhadless todowith concern for my long-

term happiness and more todo with finding out if I’dsleptwithhisbrother-in-law.‘You didn’t think to

mention he’d lost his son?’ Isaidcarefully.Scott cleared his throat.

‘Musthaveslippedmymind.’Iwas about to replywhen

he said, ‘Why, is he playingthesympathycardagain?’Gut-punched, I nearly

droppedthephone.‘I thought he’d stopped

with all that.’ He said. ‘Ithought that the whole pointofhimmovingbackherewasto put it all behind him.Anyway, it wasn’t like ithappened yesterday. And hedoesn’t like people to talkaboutit,so…’Iwasn’t quite sure how to

respond.Eventually, I recovered

enough to say, ‘So, themoney,Scott?’‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘The

money.’‘Whatdoyousuggest?’Andhesaid,‘HowaboutI

dropbytheclinicwithitinanhour?’

I turned on the windscreenwipers. The weather hadchanged abruptly. A fastmoving storm was sweepingacross the area and hadeveryone scurrying for theirhomes.The wiper on the driver’s

side of the Jeep wasdamaged.Witheachstroke itmade a soft groan, thenjuddered, leaving behind asmall patch of unclearedglass, obscuring my line ofsight. I had to sit tall andslightly forwards in the seattomakeouttheroadahead.I was on my way to the

Coniston holiday home thatScott had rented for ourconvenience. I had declinedhis offer of stopping by the

clinic, thinking it prudent tomeet where we couldn’t beobserved. And it occurred tomeaswediscussedthemeet-up thatwehadn’t fullymadeuseof theplace–perhapsashe had first hoped. Iwondered if Scott wasannoyedbythis.Ifhewas,hedidn’t give the impression ofbeing so. In fact, he brushedaway my remark with acomment about how life hadthehabitofgettingintheway

ofthebest-laidplans.Did I detect a certain

brittleness to his tone? Icouldn’tbesure.Idrove through thehamlet

of Hawkshead Hill, past theBaptistchapel–atinychurchslottedrightinamongstarowofneat,pretty,whitecottages.The road climbed steadilyuntil reaching the crossroadsat the summit.Turn right forTarnHows,thespotatwhichI’dwatchedthesungodown,

drinking beer with Henry.Head straight on forConiston.Idescendedslowly,thecar

buffeted by the crosswinds,and practised the beginningsofmyspeech.I planned to tell Scott that

we both knew ourarrangement must come to aclose. That we could notcontinue,thingsbeingastheywere. It was too risky. Fatehad planted obstacles in our

way, in the shape of Henry,amongstotherthings,andthiswouldbetheendofwhat,forme, had been an enjoyable,not tomention lucrative, fewweeks.Butitwasnowover.That should be all right, I

thought. Say that, take themoney,andrun.And Scott had alluded to

the same line of thinking onthephoneanhourago.Justashe bid me goodbye he hadlaughed,saying thatourshad

probably been the mostsuccessful relationship of hislife.Hewishedtheycouldallbe that simple, he said. Weboth got exactly what weneededoutofit.Ten minutes later, and I

turnedofftheroad.Abranchhad been pulled from anearby oak and lay strewnacrossthetrack.Iwasuponitbefore realizing and decidedto chance driving over it,rather than get out and hurl

thethingoverthehedgerow.There was a hard clunk

beneath thechassis, followedby a feeling of dragging abody beneath the car. A fewyards further on and it musthave released, as I wasdriving freely again. I didn’tgetouttocheck.Alwaysbestnottoknowwhatdamagehasbeendone,Ifound.At theendof the track the

cottage appeared. Lesspicturesque than last time, it

looked more like what itactually was: secluded, starkandalittleshoddy.There were no lights on

inside.Istayedinthecarandwaited for Scott. Thewindscreen soon becamemisted so I got the enginerunning again, directed someof the heat upwards.Instantly,itwasstuffy.Lowering the window an

inch, I heard a bell. It wasringing, faintly, and must

have been positioned eitheronayacht’smast,orelseonabuoy, out on the lake somewayfromtheshore.Thewayit cried out at irregularintervals was eerie, evokingthe image of the loneswimmer taken under thewater in the opening scenesofJaws.I shuddered. And then

there were headlights. A fullbeam hitting my mirror,blinding me for a moment.

And the crunch of gravel. Acar moving too fast andcomingtoastopbesidemeinapartialskid.I looked over. Scott lifted

hishandandclimbedout.Ihopedhemighthandover

the money and we could beonourway,butno.Hestrodetowards the front door, keysjangling, and when I calledhisnameheignoredme.SoIfollowed.Once through thedoor,his

mouth was on mine and myweight was pushed againstthewall. I had ahook inmyback.‘Thank God,’ he said

breathlessly.‘Scott,wait.’‘Ican’twait.’I tried to put some space

between us. ‘Please,’ I said,pushing him away. ‘Please,justgivemeaminute.’He took a step back and

regarded me. His expression

was worried, uncertain.Childlike, inasense.Hewasthesmallboywaiting for thegrown-up to explain exactlywhathehaddonewrong.‘Iwasn’t expecting this,’ I

began.‘You don’t want to?’ he

said,genuinelyastonished.‘I just—’ and I paused,

tryingtoclutchatthethreadsof my speech. I hadn’timagined this scenario. Fromhis manner, from the

impression he gave on thephone,IexpectedScottandIwould have a shortconversation – cordial,civilized–inwhichwewouldboth agree our arrangementwas over. We would saygoodbye.Perhapskissforoldtime’ssake.Butitwouldbeakissof fondness.Awishyouwellkindofkiss.NotthekissI’d just had forced uponme.Andcertainlynotfollowedbythelookofutterdejectionthat

wasnowonScott’sface.Heswallowed.When I still hadn’t

answered,heasked,‘Whyareweevenherethen?’I straightenedmy spine. ‘I

cameforthemoney,Scott.’‘Oh,’hesaid.‘Ithoughtyouknewthat.’He gave a sad laugh and

shook his head. ‘Imisinterpreted. When yousuggested meeting here, Iassumed that you wanted to

…’Heletthewordshang.I moved towards him. ‘I

didn’twant anyone to see ustogether,’ I explained gently.‘Ithoughtifwemetherethenitcouldbeprivate.’He reached out his hand

but,beforehecouldtouchmyface,Itookholdofitinmine.‘You’redisappointed,’Isaid.‘Couldn’twejust—’‘Sorry,wecan’t.’‘That sounds rather final,’

hesaid.

I blew out my breath.‘Scott, you’re not reallysuggestingthatwegoon,areyou? This whole thing, it’stoorisky.’‘Because of Henry,’ he

saidflatly.‘NotbecauseofHenry.’‘Have you fucked him

yet?’‘No. But that’s not really

your business.’ There was aflicker in his jaw, a slow,deliberate blink of the eyes.

Instinctively, I shrunk back,and in the space of a secondhe was upon me again.Pushing me hard into thewall.‘I don’t want you to,’ he

hissed into my ear. ‘I don’twantyouevertofuckHenry.’His mouth was on mine,

and he was grabbing at thehemofmyskirt.‘Scott,don’t.’Heignoredmywords.His hands were rough, his

breathing ragged. He pulledupmyskirtandyankedatmyknickers,makingmeyelp.Then he pulled away to

unfastenhisjeans.Istaredathim.‘What are you doing?’ I

saidcoldly.‘Whatthehelldoyouthinkyou’redoing?’Andhestopped.He looked at me with a

strange expression. Almostdumbstruck. As though hewasn’tquitewithit.

‘I don’t know,’ hewhispered.I pulled down my skirt.

Straightenedmyself.‘I don’t know what I was

doing,’herepeated.We stood in silence, both

ofustooshockedtospeak.I longeddesperately toget

out. To get away from thehouse.Togetawayfromhim.NooneknewIwashere.NotonepersonintheworldknewwhereIwasrightnow.

‘I’m sorry, thatwasoutofline,’hesaideventually.‘Youthink?’‘It was the idea of you

two,’hesaid.‘Thethoughtofyoubeingtogether is just tooclosetohome.’Hehada lookofhatred in

his eyes that contradicted hisapology. I swallowed hard,glancing towards the frontdoor.‘Scott, that’s exactly why

wecan’tgoon,’ I said. ‘It is

tooclosetohome.’‘And by that what you

meanisyoudon’twanttogoon.’‘Why wouldn’t I, Scott?’ I

replied sharply. ‘Think aboutit.Whywould I not want todo it? This thing, thisarrangement, has almost gotmeoutofdebt.Iwasclosetolosing my home before this.My son and I would havebecome homeless. And if Iwere to continue with what

we’ve been doing –Christ, Icould have savings. I couldget somewhere in life again.Butitcan’tgoon.’‘Why?’Iheldhisgaze,butIdidn’t

answer.‘This is a good

arrangement, Roz,’ heargued. ‘No one is gettinghurt.Noonewillfindout.’‘Thingshavechanged.We

are no longer two people,practically two strangers,

coming together for mutualgain. There are other peopleinvolved now, and it’sunfair.’‘Who?Whyisitunfair?’‘Yourwife.Mysister.And

yes,nowthere’sHenry.’He flinched again at the

soundofHenry’sname.‘I don’t want to be found

out, Scott,’ I said. ‘Iwant toend it before we do anydamage to the people I careaboutthemost.’

Hehunghishead.I went to go on, went to

statemy case further, but hecut me off. ‘It’s okay,’ hesaid.‘Iunderstand.Whenyouwereburiedindebt,youwerewilling to take the risk. Andnow that you’re not, you’renot.Igetit.’He handed me the money

he owed me before reachinginto his inside pocket andwithdrawing a small,midnight-blue Dorothy bag.

‘Iboughtyouthis.’When Ididn’t take it from

him,he said, ‘Please. It’s foryou.Pleasetakeit.’I loosened thecordaround

the neck of the bag. Therewasabox.Inside,therewasapair of earrings. Small, non-fussy diamonds in a white-gold setting. ‘They’re reallypretty,Scott,thankyou,butIreallydon’t—’‘Take them,’ he snapped.

‘Infact,wearthemnow.’

Scared, reluctant, I did ashe asked, lifting my hairawayfrommyface.He gazed me for a time,

smiled,andthenheshookhishead,saying,‘IreallythoughtI’dhaveyouforlonger,Roz.’And I replied, ‘I’m so

sorry,’ as earnestly as I wasable.‘I didn’t imagine it would

end this quickly,’ hecontinued. ‘I suppose Iexpecteditwouldcontinueas

longasIwanteditto.’‘Did you?’ I asked

carefully.‘Yes,’hesaid.‘Idid.’I tried to smile. Tried to

make light of it. I wasconscious of keeping himcalm. ‘You sound as thoughyouthoughtyouwerebuyingmeforlife,’Isaid.Scott made as if to speak,

buthehesitated.Then he said, ‘I would do

thatforyou.’

I dropped my head,embarrassed by hiswords. ‘Idon’tunderstand.’He reached out and took

holdofmyface.Withhisgriptight,heliftedmychin.Squeezinghard,hestepped

towards me, until his facewas inches from mine. ‘Iwould take care of you,’ hewhispered. ‘I’d take care ofyou for life, as you put it, ifonlyyou’dallowmeto.’

31

THE LATE AFTERNOON rainsplattered against the clinicwindow.Ipushedmythumbsintoahairygluteusmaximus,the flesh unforgiving as thepatient tensed in response tomy touch. ‘Try to let it go

looseifyoucan,’Itoldhim.‘It hurts like hell,’ he

replied. ‘There must besomethingseriouslywronginthere.’He was a new patient. A

fifty-something solicitor whohad blustered into the clinicwith an authoritative air,answering my questions asthough he really didn’t havetime,andCouldn’twejustgetonwiththis?When he undressed I saw

hehadhisunderpantsonbacktofront.Imovedacrosstohisother

buttock and sunkmy thumbsintothatside.Heflinchedandthen yelped as though he’dbeen bitten. ‘It’s a triggerpoint, see?’ I said. ‘It hurtsjustasmuchontheleftasonthe right. Please do relax ifyoucan.’His silence indicated

begrudging acceptance thathisarsewasnotabout to fall

off any time soon, and heremained uncommunicativefor the remainder of thesession. Apart from, that is,when I pushed too deep andhe would suck the spittle inbetween his teeth. So IthoughtaboutScott.Ithoughtaboutwhathe’dsaidearlier.Obviously, we hadn’t got

as far as the logistics of hisabsurd proposition becauseI’d got out of there just assoon as I could. Now that I

hadthechancetothinkaboutit,though,Iwascuriousastohow he imagined we wouldmaintainsuchanarrangement– if he was in fact seriousabouthisofferof‘takingcareofmeforlife’.Would he deposit a

monthlysumintomyaccountand pop by whenever herequired intercourse? Amistress, then, in thetraditionalsense?Or would we remain with

the systemofmybillinghimforservicesrendered?After his proposition Scott

hadbecomeawareofthefearin my eyes and had relaxedhis grip on my face, onceagain feeling appalled by hisown actions. He apologizedprofusely, saying he didn’tquite know where thatbehaviour had come from.Followingwhich,Iwonderedwhat exactly I’d becomesaddledwith.

Was Scott a psychopath?Was he a lonely, rich guywho couldn’t stand any kindofrejection?Apparently,hewasneither.How did I know this?

BecauseIaskedhim.Hebrokedown,expressing

mortification at what he’djust done, saying he’d neveronce hurt a woman, nevereven come close. He couldonly conclude that my earlytermination of our

arrangement had hit himharder than he could haveanticipated and he’d beentaken over by some kind ofprimitive compulsion.Something he’d neverexperiencedbefore.The patient now lifted his

head.Hesaid, ‘Doyou thinkswimmingwillhelp?’‘Do you like to swim?’ I

asked.‘Not really. I’m not very

good.’

I’m not sure why, but allnew patients ask aboutswimming. It may havesomething to do with takingthe weight off the joints, orbecause they’ve seenthoroughbreds in thehydrotherapy pool ontelevision and consider theirinjury to warrant similartreatment.Truth was, this guy had a

bad back because he had abig belly, and swimming

wouldmakenodifference. Itwas pulling his weightforward,puttingstrainon thejoints of the lower back, andthe pain in his buttock wastheresultofthis.‘I could do with getting a

bit of weight off,’ he said,moretohimselfthantome.I didn’t respond. I never

did. They didn’t come tometofeelbadabouttheirweight,and my thoughts were stillstuck on Scott. About how I

mightavoidencounteringhimagaininthenearfuture.Petramight be a problem. I’d justhave to have some goodexcuses at the ready in caseshe organized another get-together.‘Do you think I need to

lose some?’ the patientpressed.‘It can help,’ I said

vaguely.Scott’s cash was in my

handbag. This time, I wasn’t

going to deposit it in thebank, so I needed to keep itwell hidden. Problem was,my landlordhadakey to thehouse, and it didn’t exactlyhave great security. So itwouldn’t be wise to leave itin one of my usual hidingplaces: the bread bin; insidethe cheese drawer of thefridge.And now I would need

someofittofixmycar.Returning to work, after

the meeting with Scott, Iheard an ominous, metallicclunking coming frombeneath that didn’t soundgood. One of those noisesyou ignore at your peril.Well, I had ignored it, untilTerry the ferry attendantstopped and stared as I’dboarded,tappingmywindow,saying there was somethinghanging down from theexhaust. Then I had noalternative but to

acknowledge there was aproblem and made a note tobook the car into the garage.It would be expensive.Driving over that branchwould turn out to be anexpensive decision. It waslike Newton’s fourth law orsomething.I demonstrated a few back

extensions to the solicitor,since the jointsofhis lumbarspinewere locked in forwardflexion, and hemade like he

was interested, asking howmanyheshoulddo,whattimeofdaywasbest.He wouldn’t do the

exercise. His wife had mostlikelymade this appointmentjusttostophimcomplaining.‘Scott Elias said youwere

very good,’ he remarked ashe knotted his tie in front ofthemirror,andIdidadoubletake.‘You’re friends?’ I asked

cautiously,tryingnottoshow

thathe’dunsettledme.‘Wegowayback.’He perched on the

treatment couch, lifting upalternatekneestotiehisshoelaces.Whenhestood,hesaid,‘Do you know what, for thelast tenyearsmyback’shurtevery time I’ve got up fromsitting.Andnowthepainhasgone.’I smiled at him. ‘Glad it’s

feelingbetter.’Iwasawareoftheclock.I

neededaquicktriptotheloobefore the next patient and Iwanted to get rid of this onequick.‘Thewifereckonsacopper

bracelet helps withrheumatism. What are yourthoughts?’‘You’ve not got

rheumatism.’‘ButsupposeIdid.’‘Then I’d say do anything

thathelps.’‘Youthinkit’stwaddle,’he

said.Imade a face like I didn’t

reallywanttocommit.‘What about magnets,

crystals?’ he asked. ‘She’sintoallthatstuff.’‘Like I said, whatever

works.’‘Do I make another

appointment?’heasked,andItoldhimtofollowmethroughto reception, where I’d sorthim outwith something nextweek.

When I opened the door,DSAspinallwaswaiting.Sheplaced the magazine she’dbeen reading down on thetable in front of her beforelifting her hand in a gestureofhello.Her facewasblank,unreadable.I took the solicitor’s debit

cardandaskedhimtokey inhisPIN.‘WillIseeyouattheparty?’heasked.Imust have had a look of

puzzlement on my face,

becausehe added, ‘Scott andNadine’s weddinganniversary?’I shrugged. ‘Must be for

close friends and familyonly,’Isaid.He was embarrassed, and

apologized,sayinghethoughtfrom the way Scott spoke ofme that we knew each otherwell.‘Not that well,’ I said a

little stiffly, and he gathereduphiswallet.

Oncehe’dleftthebuildingDS Aspinall approached thedesk.‘We’ve found something,’

shesaid.

32

‘ABODY?’Irepeated.DSAspinallnodded.‘Adeadbody?’Iasked.‘We are waiting for a

formal identification, but atthis stageweare assuming itisthebodyofMrGeddes.’

I sat down heavily on theoffice chair behind me.‘Wayne’sdead?’Iwhispered.‘Ican’tbelieveit.’I stared at my hands.

Christ, it didn’t seempossible. I looked to DSAspinall, who at firstremained silent, allowingmeto process the news. It wasonlywhen she asked, ‘Can Igetyouanything?Adrinkofwater? Tea?’ that I realizedshe was staying a while and

hadn’t come here merely toinformmeofthedeath.‘Doeshismotherknow?’I

asked.‘She’s been informed. His

cousinhasagreedtoviewthebodyonceit’s…’Shepausedat this point, stopped herselffrom speaking further. ‘I’llneed to ask you and yourcolleagues a few questions,’DS Aspinall said, ‘once youfeel ready. I understand thismust be difficult for you to

makesenseof.’But incaseIwas inanydoubt, sheadded,‘Iwill need to question eachof you now, though, MrsToovey.Today.’I lifted my head. ‘Where

washefound?’‘Athishome.’I put my hand to my

mouth.‘How long has he been

dead?’Iasked.‘We can’t be sure at this

stage.’

Wayne, what have youdone?I knew he was depressed

when I left him. I knew hewas confused – ashamed,even– atwhathadoccurred,butdead?Really?‘Howdidhedoit?’Iasked

quietly.‘Sorry?’‘Howdidhekillhimself?’‘Oh, Mrs Toovey, I’m so

sorry, you misunderstood.Wayne Geddes didn’t kill

himself.’Ifrowned.‘He was found inside the

freezer in the outhouse,’ shesaid.My eyes widened.

‘Someoneputhiminthere?’‘Webelieveso,yes.’A stupid question, I

realized.Waynewouldhardlyclimb in himself. If DSAspinall thought she wasspeaking to an idiot, shedidn’tshowit. ‘Apologies,’ I

said, ‘I can’t seem to thinkstraight.’‘At the moment we don’t

haveanexactcauseofdeath,butasyoucanimaginewe’reeager to get going on this asquicklyaspossible.Nowthatit’s a murder inquiry, I havetoaskyou,MrsToovey,wereyou ever present at theproperty?’‘At Wayne’s house?’ I

askedshakily.Shenodded.

Iswallowed. ‘Idon’t thinkso.’Shetiltedherhead.‘Ineed

adefiniteyesorno.’‘No,then.’‘Okay, good. What we’re

hoping to do in the firstinstance,aftertheinitialdoor-to-door,istotakefingerprintsfromanyoneMrGeddeswasin contact with. Friends,colleagues, and so on. Thatwaywecanquicklyeliminatethemfromthecase.Iwonder

if you would be able tosupply us with a list ofnames,MrsToovey?’‘Names.’‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Namesof

colleagues, patients he mayhave had a disagreementwith,thatsortofthing.Tobehonest, we just need a placetostart.Thereisverylittletogoonasthingsstand.’I could feel the pulse

throbbing in my temporalartery. I wondered if it was

visible.My fingerprints were all

over that house. All overWayne.DS Aspinall went to hand

me another card with herdetails on it, but beforereleasing it from her graspshepaused.She regardedmeforamoment,tiltingherheadto the sideas though lookingfrom a different angle mightpresentananswer.Then she smiled. ‘The

sooner the better with thatlist, Mrs Toovey,’ she said,and I told her I would getstartedonit.Thelist:RozToovey.RozToovey.RozToovey.Later, after she’d gone, I

sat with my head in myhands, trying to remember,desperately; trying torecollect anything about thatnight atWayne’s.Where did

Iputmyprints?MyDNA?‘So you never went there,

Mrs Toovey?’ DS Aspinallwould inevitably ask. ‘Younever once entered MrGeddes’house?Explainthen,if you will, the presence ofyour pubic hair in the diningroom. Explain the line offingerprints on thewindowsill.’I should handmyself in. I

shouldgoafterherrightnowandcomeclean. Iwent there

tohavesexwithWayne,butIdidn’t murder him. It wasconsensual sex.Agreed uponbeforehand. I went therespecifically to have sex withWayne Geddes, even thoughitdidn’tactuallyhappen.ExceptthiswasWayne.Who in their right mind

would believe that? No onewouldbelievethat.So I should tell DS

Aspinall that I went there tohavesexwithWaynebecause

he was blackmailing meaboutthestolenmoney.MoneyI’dledDSAspinall

to believe was taken byWayne.Iwouldbeprosecuted.My

namewouldbeinthepapers.I could say goodbye to myjob, to running my ownpracticeagain.Noonewouldtrustme.Fuck.What if I told her I was

being blackmailed byWayne

because I’d been acceptingpayments for sex from ScottElias?Then I would be popped

righttothetopoftheirlistofsuspects because not onlywas I at the property, I alsohadamotiveforkillinghim.Killinghim.Someone had killed

Wayne. Poor, poor, patheticWayne.Who would do such a

thing?Andwhatiftheywere

at the house when I wasthere?Whatiftheysawwhathappenedbetweenus?

33

NEXT,TWOTHINGShappened.Two phone calls that in

themselves were innocuousenough but together wouldmake for a devastatingoutcome.I drove home thinking

about Wayne’s body,thinking about my situation,understanding for the firsttime what real fear was. BythetimeIgottotheferrythefearwas so strongyoucouldsmell it on me. Thecombination of coffee andadrenalin poured in a ranksweat frommy armpits. I satwith my hands gripped tightto thewheel,my face inchesfromthewindscreen.Terry was away, so a

cocksurekid inhis late teenshad the job of ticketattendant.He rappedhardonmy window, startling me,swathing me in pickled-onion-crisp breath as Ilowered the glass. His upperrowofteethwascloggedwithfood.Reaching into the glove

compartment, I retrieved thebook of tickets, handing oneover,justasmymobilerang.UNKNOWNNUMBER.

‘Roz?’I sighed out a long,weary

breath.‘Winston,’Isaid.‘Roz, you’ll never guess

what’shappened—’‘You’ve been stranded in

Newquay.’‘Howdidyouknow?’‘Luckyguess.’‘Yeah, well, I’ve lost my

lift home, and I can’t scrapethe money together for thetrain fare. Iwon’tbeback intime to pick George up

tomorrow. Any chance youcould do this weekend, andI’lldothenexttwo?’‘What happened to the

girl?’‘The girl?’ he said

innocently.‘Your mother said you’d

gone to Newquay with theblondefromthecampsite.’‘Oh her. Yeah, that didn’t

really work out. She kind ofhookedupwithsomeoneelse,aslimybastardwhocouldget

reallystrongskunk.Anyway,listen,ifIcan’tgetthemoneyin thenext fewdays, I’ll justthumbitback,okay?’‘Okay.’‘Sureyoudon’tmind?’‘Idon’tmind.’‘You sound weird, Roz.

You’re not doing that thingwhen you act all fine aboutsomething and then throw itback inmy face lateron, areyou?’‘I’mnotdoingthat.’

‘Great. That’s a relief. Icannevertell.SeeyouwhenIgethomethen.’‘Sure,Winston.When you

gethome.’WeendedthecallandIsat

back in my seat. Took abreath.The uncomplicated life of

WinstonToovey.No money to get back to

see his son? Hey, things’llwork out. And with me andhis mother to pick up after

him,theyusuallydid.Theferrydocked,groaning

more than usual. Touristsscurried back to their cars,engines were started, visorslowered, as we would all beheadingwest,directlyintothesun.Thewomaninfrontmusthavelefthercaringear,asitjolted forward when sheturned the ignition. Shetouchedherhairrepeatedlyinembarrassment.WaynewasmurderedandI

wasthelastpersontoseehimalive. I just couldn’t get myhead around anyone wantingtokillWayneandbundlehisbody into thefreezer.House-to-house inquiries, DSAspinall had said. Wouldanyone remember a blackJeep creeping towardsWayne’s house that night?Leaving again later, tearingup the turf at theedgeof thegarden, because I was in somuchofahurrytoescape?

Thefarmcottagewasonitsown at the end of a shortstretch of track. But therewere one or two houses thathad a view of it from acrossthe fields. Someone couldhave been watching fromtheir bedroom window.Someone could remembersomething.What if they matched the

tyretreads?Icouldonlyhopethe rain had washed themawaybynow.

I wound my way overClaifeHeights,behindatruckwith two collies in the rear,alongwithafewbalesofhay.The days of shepherdstending to one flock werelonggone.Theseguys flittedfromplacetoplace,droppingfoodsuppliesout thebackoftheir Mitsubishis, moreFedExthanfarmers.Iaminnocent,Irepeatedas

I descended into the valley.The storm of earlier had

cleared and the valley wasnow awash with honey-coloured light. So pretty itmadeyourheartstop.Icouldnot be charged with killingWayne Geddes, because Ididn’t do it. I’m innocent, Isaidagain.Hopingsomething– anything – would emergefromDSAspinall’s inquiriesthatwouldproveit.

George was sitting on hisown when I arrived at after-

schoolclub.Hewas holding a piece of

paper steady with his lefthand and looked to betracing. I was just about toapproach when Iona caughtmyeye.‘A word?’ she mouthed,

beckoningmeover.I sensed danger so asked,

‘How’stheknee?’brightandbreezy, as though I wasn’taware of something nasty tocome.

Instinctively, Iona liftedherleg,flexingandextendingit at the joint. ‘So muchbetter.That tapeyouputon?Itworkedatreat.Youshouldpatentit.’‘I keep meaning to. All

okay?’ I asked, with respecttoGeorge,andherexpressionturned at once grave andformal.‘I’vebeentoldtogiveyou

this.’She handed me an

envelope. ‘Mr and MrsToovey’ was printed acrossthe front. Followed by‘Confidential’.‘DoIreaditnow?’Iasked.‘That’suptoyou.’Iunfoldeditandread.The

school requested myattendance at a meetingscheduled for MondaymorningtodiscussGeorge.Arepresentative fromtheLocalEducation Authority wouldbepresent.

I looked up at Iona. ‘Doyouknowwhatthisisabout?’Sheleanedin,loweringher

voice. ‘Sorry, Roz, it’s notreallymyplace,notbeinghisteacher,butI thinkhe’sbeenstealingagain.’I slipped the letter back

inside the envelope andpushedithardintothepocketofmytunic.‘I’m sure it’s something

and nothing,’ Iona said,tryingtosmile,brushingitoff

as though it were a minorinconvenience.But itwasn’t.If the LEA was involved, itwasn’t.Inodded,thankingIonafor

her discretion, and toldGeorge to collect his things,quicklyashecould.Hedidn’tmakeeyecontactwithmethewholetime,didn’tsayawordeither. It wasn’t until I gothim inside the car and wasturning the ignition that hesaid,‘Itwasn’tme.’

I cut the engine. ‘What doyoumean,itwasn’tyou?’He threw me a look that

said I knew you wouldn’tbelieve me, and stared hardthroughthewindscreen.The sun broke through

frombehindacloud,blindingus both. ‘George, reach intomy handbag,’ I said to him,‘andgetmysunglasses.Theymightbeinthesidepocket.’He lifted thebagon tohis

lap and pulled at the zip. It

was in the habit of jammingand so he tugged hard acoupleoftimesbeforeitflewopen, releasing a cloud oftwenty-pound notes, whichflutteredaroundus.Georgelookedatmeagog.

Shit,themoney.I’dforgottenallaboutit.‘Gather it up!’ I cried out.

‘Quick, gather it up beforesomebodysees.’George did as he was

asked, scrabbling around in

the footwell. When we’dretrievedthelastofthem,wesatthereinsilence.‘Are we rich now?’ he

askedcarefully.‘No.’‘Not even with all that

money?’‘Not even with all that

money,’ I said. ‘It will onlycover three months’ rent,sweetheart.So,no,we’renotrich. Tell mewhat happenedatschool.’

‘Idon’twantto.’‘Unfortunately, there’s no

choice.’A look of anger flashed

across his face. ‘I didn’t doit,’ he said. ‘I told them Ididn’tdoit.ItoldyouIdidn’tdoit.Butnoonewillbelieveme.’‘Whatwasstolen?’‘Pokémonfigures.’My heart sank. ‘Which

onesexactly?’‘I don’t know. Leif says

three were taken out of hisbag, and the teachers foundtheminmybag.’‘So how did they get into

yourbag?’He glared at me again. ‘I

don’tknow.’‘Jesus, George, if they

foundtheminyourbag–ifateacher found them in yourbag – thenwho else could itbe?’‘ButIdidn’ttakethem.’‘Could you not help it

because you really wantedLeif’s figures and you didn’tthink he would noticebecausehehassomany?’Georgesighed impatiently,

saying, ‘You never forgetwhichonesyouhave.’‘So who took them?’ I

asked.‘Idon’tknow.’‘And why would they put

theminyourbag?’‘Idon’tknow.’‘Have you had an

argument? Have you beenmean?Wouldanotherkiddothistogetyouintotrouble?’‘Idon’tknow.’‘George! For God’s sake,

I’mtryingtohelpyou!Don’tyou see, once you’ve stolenstuff, people don’t carewhetheritwasyouwhodiditthe next time or not? You’llbeblamedregardless!’‘But I didn’t do it. And

that’snotfair!’‘I know it’s not fair, but

it’showitis!’Why did this have to

happentoday?Whytoday,ofalldays?I looked atGeorge and he

wascrying.Iwastooangrytoreachout tohim.Angrywithhim.AngrywithWinstonfornot being here again. Forleavingmebroke.Angrywithmyselfforbeingsuchafuck-up.I rubbed at my face with

my hands. ‘Okay,’ I said.

‘Okay, let’s start again. Ididn’tmeantoshout.’He nodded, tears

meandering down his dirtycheeks.‘I’m all you’ve got right

now,’ I said softly. ‘I’m theonly person, except for yourfather, and surprise surprise,he’s not here. Do youunderstandthat?’‘Yes,’hewhimpered.‘ChristknowsIdon’tneed

this today, George. I really

don’t.ButIamonyourside,and I will back you upbecauseyouaremyson.Andwhether you’ve done it ornot, I don’t really care,becauseyou’reallIhaveandIloveyou.Butformetofindaway through this you needto stop being somad at me,because I didn’t cause this. Ididn’t make anyone stealanything.Whoeveritwas.’I was still breathing hard,

and my head was shaking. I

worked to stifle a sob thatwasthreateningtobuild.‘I’msorry,’saidGeorge.‘It’s okay.Noone likes to

be accused. I understandthat.’I turned the ignition and

headed out on to the road.We’d gone about twentyyards when I became awareofGeorgegrippinghishandstogether so hard that hisknuckles were blanchedwhite.

‘Mum,’hesaid.‘Whatisit?’‘Ididn’ttakethem.’‘I know you didn’t, baby.

It’sokay.Let’sgohome.’

34

THE SECOND PHONE call camefromNadine.I’d barely got inside the

housewhen I could hear hervoice echoing through fromthe dining room.George hadseen the answer machine

flashing and pressed play,thinking itwould be his dad.‘So the upshot of all this isthat Henry will be callingaroundwithaninvitationthisevening. I’m so sorry aboutthis,Roz,butyouknowwhatthey say: If you wantsomething doing, ask a busywoman. Idohopeyou’ll joinus. I’m terribly embarrassed.Poor Petra didn’t knowwhether to say anything ornot. I’ve given Scott a real

earbashing.Hewassupposedtogiveyouyour inviteathislast physio session. Anyway,hopefully no harm done andwe’llseeyoutomorrow.’I stood looking at the

machine. ‘No you won’t,’ Isaid, and went into thekitchentofindsomealcohol.A garden party, or

afternoon tea, whatever youlike to call it. This is whatNadine said. It was tocelebrate their twenty-fifth

weddinganniversaryandwasbeing held at a nearby hoteltomorrow. Friday. Nadineplayed it down on the phone– low key, nothing fancy –but this hotel was not lowkey.EsthwaiteManorwastheplace movie stars stayedwhen visiting the Lakes. Noone I knew had eaten there,because it cost an arm and aleg, and non-residents of thehotelwerenotencouraged.Anyway,ofcourseIwasn’t

going. And not that it madeany difference to mydecision, but Scott didn’twant me to be there – thatwas made clear by the facthe’d neglected to hand overmy invitation. It slipped hismind, apparently. And thenhemislaid it. NadinewantedmethereasHenry’sguest;ofcoursetherehadalwaysbeenaninvitationforme,shesaid.The reason she’d plumped

for afternoon tea and not a

full evening celebration?They were flying to theGalápagos Islands, viaAtlanta, then Ecuador, onSaturday. And Scott knewnothing about it. It wassomething he’d talked aboutforyears.Thegianttortoises,andsoon,andNadinesaidifthey didn’t do it now they’dneverdoit.Soaboozynightwas out of the question ifthey were flying long haul adaylater.

She’d ended the call bysaying,‘Notawordaboutthetrip, Roz.’ And then, ‘Can’twaittoseeyou!’Shewassobloodynice.I used to smoke. Right at

that moment I missed it likenever before. It was the firstthingIusedtodowhenfacedwith a problem, a situation Ifound difficult. Light up,stand outside the back door,take a few deep inhalations,and the problem didn’t seem

quitesoinsurmountable.If I still smoked, I would

smokeoneafter anothernowuntilmylungswereonfire.Ineeded a vacation from myproblems; from my ownbrain, in fact. The party, Icould dealwith. I’dmake anexcuse for not attending andwish them well. The list forDSAspinall,Icouldn’tavoid.I had to face it. Along withthe meeting with the LEA.And I needed time to think

about these things. I neededspacetoworkoutwhatIwasgoing to do. I did not needHenry turning up,wonderingwhatthehellwaswrongwithme.I’d get out of the house.

That was the answer. Avoid,avoid,avoid.‘George!’ I yelled. ‘Wash

yourface,we’regoingout.’‘Where?’ he shouted back

fromthegarden.‘I don’t know.Wash your

face,changeyourT-shirt,putoncleansocks.’‘Idon’twanttogoout.’‘Doit!’He ran past, flying up the

stairs, treading heavily,making as much noise aspossible, in the way kids dowhen they’re unhappy withwhat’s been requested ofthem.I’dhaveto tidymyselfup as well. I threw theremainder of the wine downthe sink and went to change

outofmyuniform.Five minutes later, in a

white shirt and jeans, Igrabbed my bag. The frontdoor was ajar. I could hearDennissoftlymurmuringandGeorge chattering away tohim. George said once thatthereasonhelikedDennissomuch (aside from him beingtheownerof adog)was thathe didn’t pretend to beinterested in him. Unlikeotheradults.

Dennis either talked or hedidn’t. He spoke when hewanted to know somethingbutdidn’tfeeltheneedtofillthesilencewithwordsjustforthe sake of it. Celia didenough of that for both ofthem.I’d asked George if he

thought I pretended to beinterested in him and he’dchewed itover foramomentbefore answering, ‘No.You’ve got to ask me that

stuff because you’re mymum.’Iwentthroughtoclosethe

back door and, when Ireturned to the lounge, myhandbag was lying on thesofa.Icouldn’tleavewithallthatmoneystuffedinsideit.Iglanced out of the windowandsawGeorge squattingonhis haunches, minus oneshoe, now over on Celia’sside of the fence, ticklingFoxy’s belly. Dennis held

George’sremovedshoeinhishand and appeared to bepicking at the sole with asmallknife.NosignofHenry.Iunzippedthesofacushion

andbeganstuffingthemoneyfrom my handbag deepinside. George had crumpledmany of the notes, but Ididn’t have time to startironingthemoutsoIjusthidthemthebestwayIcould—‘Anyonehome?’

Shit.‘Hey,’Henrysaid.I turned slowly. He had

pushedthedooropenandwasstanding in the gap, smilingwarmly.‘Givemeaminute?’Isaid

helplessly.‘Sure,’ he replied. ‘Can I

comein?’‘No!’Iyelled,andhestood

where he was, stock still.‘No,’ I said againimmediately,milderthistime.

‘Sorry,justgivemeaminuteand I’ll be straight out.There’s something I need todo.’‘Ok–ay,’ he said slowly,

perturbed but trying not toshow it. He backed out,saying, ‘I’ll wait rightoutside.’‘Shut the door, would

you?’A moment later, money

hidden, I came out to findCelia had joined them and

wasfiringquestionsatHenry.‘I’m not sure what we’re

having,’Henrywassaying,asCelia inquired about thefollowing day’s celebration.Her friend Joyce from bookclub had eaten at EsthwaiteManor when it first openedand raved about the lemondessert:it‘justslippeddown’,apparently.Celiawasveryexcited.‘Roz, open your invitation

soIcanseeit.Dennis,goand

fetchmyreadingglasses.’‘It’snot fromBuckingham

Palace,Celia,’Isaid.‘Iknowthat,’shesnapped.Henry turned to me. ‘Are

youokay?’hewhispered,andInoddedquickly,notmeetinghis gaze, hopinghewouldn’tpursueit.Before opening the

envelope, I said, ‘I won’t beabletogotothis,I’mafraid,’and Celia did a double take,hermouthdroppingopen.

‘Whatdoyoumean,you’renot going? Of course you’regoing,’shesaid.Henry liftedhiseyebrows.‘Winston isn’t back,’ I

explained. ‘He’s stuck inCornwall.’‘Bring George along with

you,’suggestedHenry.‘Thanks,buttobehonestI

don’t really think it’s a kidskind of place, especiallywhen—’‘Youhavegottogotothis,

Roz,’ Celia said, as thoughmy lifedependedon it. ‘Youcannot pass over thisinvitation. It’s simply too’ –shepaused, tryingtofindtheright word – ‘it’s tooimportant,’ and she glared atmebeforeflickingherheadatHenry. As though hewouldn’tnotice.Henry said, ‘I’d really like

you to come if you can. Nopressure, but it’s going to bedeadly dull. Scott will give

one of his haven’t I donewell?Speeches, and itwouldbe so much easier to take ifyouwerethere.’‘IreallywishIcould.’‘And he’ll have all of his

croniesthereaskingwhatlineofbusinessI’min,andifI’veever thought of joiningRotary.’Apause.‘We’ll take care of

George,’ Celia declaredloudly.‘Won’twe,Dennis?’

Dennis was making hisway back across the garden,holding out Celia’s glasses.Heagreedthatitwouldbenotrouble, smiling coyly atGeorge,sayinghecouldhelpoutwithwalkingFoxy.Iwasbeingrailroaded.Iprotestedagain,butCelia

was having none of it. Shetold me to stop beingridiculous, that she andDennis were more thancapable,thatitwasbordering

oninsulting,infact,thewayIwaswavering over this.Andthen she toldme to pass hertheinvitation.A peculiar look of

melancholy came over Celiathen.Shemouthed thewordsas she read. I watched,realizing in thatmoment thatshewascomingtotermswiththe fact that she wouldprobably never be invited toaneventatEsthwaiteManor.That ship had sailed.

Observing her, you couldalmostseeher lettinggoofadream.She gathered herself.

Shook off the moment ofsadnessandgotbacktobeingCelia. She askedHenry if hewould like a glass of cava –‘Wedon’tdochampagneonaweeknight!’–andhowaboutsome of Dennis’sstrawberriestogowithit?Henry said that he would,

as I tried unsuccessfully to

appear happy and gratefulwiththearrangements.Inside, I was fighting the

urgetorunaway.IwantedtograbholdofGeorge, flee thescene,nevertocomeback.Which was exactly what I

shouldhavedone.

35

‘WHATDOYOUbuythecouplewhohaseverything?’IaskedHenry.‘I’llgetagiftandputyour

nameonit,’hereplied.‘I can’t turn up empty-

handed.’

‘You won’t be empty-handed,you’llbewithme.’‘Okay, so what will you

buy the couple who haseverything?’‘I’llthinkofsomething.’As it happened, he didn’t

think of something, and wedid as I’d feared: turned upwithout a present. When Ibecame twitchy about this inthe car on the way there,Henry reassured me that noone would notice, and he

wasn’twastingmoneyonthatwanker; he would takeNadine out for a nice lunchwhen they returned from thePacific.‘She’dpreferthat,’hesaid. ‘She’s alwayscomplaining she doesn’t gettospendenoughtimewithmeand never knows what’sgoingoninmylife.Honestly,Roz,it’sfine.’I wore my wedding-party

staple: thechiffondressfromCoastwiththetearosesonit,

and a tense expression. Thekind of look you see on awoman who feels fat in heroutfit and no amount ofcajoling can snap her out ofit.Iwasscared.Scaredofthe

afternoon ahead, scared ofseeing Scott in a publicsetting. Scared of giving myprintstothepolice.I’d had a rethink with

regards to the list that DSAspinall had requested and

rather than dilly-dally oversending it, I’d gone to townon it. Put down every Tom,DickandHarryIcould thinkoftokeepthewomanbusy.Ipositionedmyself three fromthebottomofalistofaroundahundredpeople,hopingthatbythetimeshegotaroundtofingerprinting me, somethingwould have turned up toexonerateme.Alongshot.Butitwasthe

bestIcoulddo.

Henrytoldmetoremaininthecarwhilsthejumpedout,appearing on my side,openingthedoorandofferinghis arm. He wore a two-button tailored suit in bluesharkskin and he lookeddivine.Beforewemoved offin the direction of theentrancehestopped.Turning to face me, he

said, ‘Answer me this, wereyou reluctant to come heretoday because you’d rather

not be with me, or becauseyou’drathernotcomeatall?’Ihesitated.Hesaid,‘Thetruth,please,

Roz.’‘The latter,’ I said,

dropping my gaze. ‘It’s notyou,Henry.’‘Okay then,’ he said, and

he lifted my chin with hisfinger, placing a soft kissabovemybrow.His lips barely brushed

against my skin but I found

myself gasping at the feel ofhis touch. Embarrassed, Ipulledaway.‘Wait,’ he said, looking at

meintently.I was aware of a car pass

beside us. Aware of thebreeze picking up and myhaircomingloose.With his eyes never

leaving mine, Henry reachedout and tucked the few straystrands behind my ear. Thenhekissedme.

The smell of him, the softpushofhis tongue insidemymouth,andmylegsbegan tobuckle.‘Promise we’ll get away

fromhereassoonaswecan,’he whispered as he led metowardsthehotelentrance.He slipped his arm around

my waist, and it feltwonderful. I’d been turningup alone to these things –functions, birthdays,christenings–forso,solong.

HenrypulledmeincloselikeI belonged to him. And foroneshort,wonderfulmomentI felt like I did. I wanted tobelong tohim.Hisbodywaslean and tight beneath hissuit. He smelled good. Hewasn’tadickhead.‘What time did you tell

your neighbours you’d beback to pick up George?’Henryasked.‘Aroundeight.’He checked his watch.

‘We’ve got just under threehours. I reckonwe show ourfaces,makepleasantrieswiththe happy couple and sneakoffthefirstchanceweget.’At that moment I felt a

kind of dopey sensationdrawing me towards Henry.And if he told me to followhimanywhere at all, Iwoulddoit.

Esthwaite Manor was builtentirelyfromLakelandStone.

It had aGothic feel, with itsthree turrets, the steep pitchofitsroof.Whenwereachedthe doorsHenry said, ‘Braceyourself.’It had been immaculately

renovated. Itwas the type ofplace where you foundyourselfwalkingon theballsof your feet so your heelsdidn’tdamagetheflooring.Aprettygirlinagoodsuit

who was manning theentrancetoldusthattheElias

partywasoutside.Ifwemadeourway through thedrawingroom, she said, we’d findthem easily enough. Henrytookmyhandandsqueezeditbeforewe continued. ‘I’m soglad you came,’ hewhispered, and we weresweptalongbya tipsygroupin their late fifties; peoplewho populated the societypages of Cumbria Lifemagazine, attending charityevents and whatnot. Their

laughter was raucous, theaccents broad, and I washappy to disappear amongstthem as we moved towardsthepatio.Outside, beneath a quaint,

ivory-painted, wrought-irongazebo, a string quartetplayed cover versions ofpopular songs. Sting’s‘Englishman in New York’wasjustendingaswearrived,andHenrysaidquietly,‘Howlong, I wonder, before

“EleanorRigby”?’Notlong,asithappened.It

wasnext.Therewasanuninterrupted

view across the lake.Esthwaite Water is a smalllake, less than a mile inlength, so it’s really onlypopular with fishermen. Arowing boat was visiblebobbing over at the westernshore,onelonefigureinside.I must have had a wistful

look on my face because a

voice to my left said, ‘Wishyoucouldchangeplaceswiththatguy?’Scott.Itriedtosmile.‘Notatall,’

Isaid.‘Andcongratulations.’He kissed my cheek,

whispering he was sorry hehad neglected to pass onmyinvitation, and when Iintimated that itwas sensiblenot to want me here, that Ishouldn’t be here, he lookedsurprised.

‘Of course I want youhere,’ he said tersely, thoughquietly, out of earshot ofHenry, who was makingconversationwithawaiter tohisright.‘Itslippedmymindonaccountofyougivingmemymarchingorderswhenwelastmet. That’swhy I didn’tmentionit,’hesaid,andthenheturnedtoHenry.Henry congratulated Scott,

shaking his hand, and Scottsaid, ‘Twenty-fiveyears,’ his

voice booming now, full ofgood cheer. ‘What is it theysayagain?’‘Youget less formurder?’

suppliedHenry.‘I was going to say the

latter years are the best,’repliedScott.I needed to get away.

Having the two of them insuchcloseproximitywas toomuch. Henry was smiling atScott in a way I’d not seenbefore; it was a smile that

conveyed amused disdain.His eyes danced as heregardedScott,and theresultwaschilling.NotthatScottcared.He already knew what

Henry thought of him. Scottglanced atme and I saw thebeginnings of a smile. Getthis guy, his smirk said. Ifonly he knew who’d beenscrewing his nice, newgirlfriend.‘Excuse me,’ I said, and

slippedaway.Myheadthrobbing,Icuta

line across thepatiowith thevague notion of spendingsome time in the Ladies. Ontheway,Petracaughtmyeye.She was wavingmadly fromover by the musicians. Backin a sec? I gestured, andpointedinside.ShewavedmeoffandresumedchattingtoawomanIdidn’tknow.The Ladies had a number

of chrome art-deco vanity

units, each with a lamp andanindividualhairdryer.Itwaslike apowder room from thethirties:charming,andtotallyagainstthecurrenttrend.Twooftheseatswereoccupiedbywell-dressed women whowere chattering aboutswitching to Bulgarianhousekeepers, because theinitial enthusiasmon thepartofthePoleswasbeginningtowane.‘AslazyastheEnglishnow,’onesaidtotheother.

I took a seat and playedwithmyhairabit,stallingfortime. When I emerged fromthe bathroom Iwas aware ofa pause in the music andheaded outside to see whatwasgoingon.The party was gathered in

one spot, a kind of roughsemicircle, on the grass justbeneaththepatio.Therewerearound a hundred people.Nadine was standing on thesteps addressing the party,

along with Scott, and theyhad their backs to me.Quickly, I joined the group,mingled in with Petra andVince. I complimented Petraon her outfit, and she linkedmy arm. She lifted her chin,hangingontoNadine’severyword.Nadine was stunning in a

beautifully cut, oyster-coloured trouser suit. Shelooked slim and lovely, herskin radiant. Scott stood