She gave it the merest glance.

‘It’s a bit last-minute—’

‘Now, there’s grateful—’

‘I’d be grateful if I needed to be,’ Maeve said. ‘As well you know’. She looked up. ‘Why aren’t you going?’

Russell unhooked his jacket from the bamboo hatstand behind the door.

‘I’m away to my wife’.

Maeve stopped typing but didn’t look up.

‘Is she OK?’

‘To be truthful,’ Russell said, ‘not very’.

‘There’s no dress rehearsal for these stages of life—’

‘No’.

‘And no way that I can see of knowing how you’ll conduct yourself—’

‘No’.

Maeve began typing again.

‘How’s Rosa?’

‘Don’t know,’ Russell said.

‘Only asking. Pretty girl. Striking, even. And clever. Now, if Rosa was mine—’

‘Good night, Maeve,’ Russell said. He opened the door. ‘See you in the morning’.

She gave a tiny smile to her keyboard.

‘Enjoy your evening’.

Descending to the underground, Russell wondered when he had last attempted to travel not in the rush hour. At four in the afternoon, the underground was strangely easy and accessible, and the people using it looked altogether less driven and self-absorbed. He even found a seat, and extracted the books section of the previous weekend’s newspaper for a leisurely read about books he would never read himself only to discover that he couldn’t somehow concentrate. It wasn’t leaving work early that was troubling – although he couldn’t remember when he had last done that – nor even some residual nagging consciousness that he should be going to the preview because you never knew who else might be in the audience. It was Edie, really. However unresponsive she was being, however unhelpful both to herself and to him, however – well, exasperating was the word that came to mind – she was, one way and another, worrying to Russell. It was natural, perhaps, to feel the final departure of your youngest child as keenly as she felt Ben’s, but was it natural to go on feeling it so keenly, to sink so deeply into the effects of loss that you couldn’t see the point of, or colour in, anything else? And, equally, was it fair to have to restrain oneself from telling one’s wife that she was overreacting, on a daily basis, because one feared the inevitable subsequent explosion?

She hadn’t, it was perfectly obvious, made any effort for the Ibsen casting. She had only gone in the end because Russell and her agent had almost forced her to, and this in itself was worrying because, in the past, however busy, however preoccupied with family life, Edie had displayed an eagerness about every chance that came her way, a kind of optimistic determination that Russell had marvelled at, admired, especially in the face of so much inevitable rejection. She had even said every so often while yanking clothes out of the dryer or dumping mountains of groceries on the kitchen table, ‘Just think what it’ll be like when I can think about lines and not lavatory paper!’ And now that time had come, and she seemed utterly indifferent to it, indifferent indeed to almost everything except tending to this furious small flame of longing for Ben – metaphor for the children’s childhoods – to be back again.

Perhaps, Russell thought, it was just a matter of time. Perhaps – more disconcertingly – it was a kind of depression. Perhaps – more disconcertingly still – Edie had been so changed by all those years of nurture that she couldn’t now remember how it was to be just married, how it was to want to be still married. He shook his paper a little. So many books on the bestseller lists, on the review pages, were about love. Well, of course. In all its myriad forms. What else mattered, really? If it wasn’t for love, indeed, why was he sitting on an afternoon train going home to someone whose current unhappiness he would gladly have shouldered himself? The train pulled into his station and stopped with a jerk. Russell helped a pregnant black girl get herself and a buggy and a sleepy toddler dressed as Spider-Man off the train and on to the platform.

She looked at him. Her eyes were as dark and round as her Spider-Man child’s. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

He badly wanted to say something back. He opened his mouth and then realised that what he hopelessly wanted to say was whole paragraphs of confused thinking about parenthood and letting go and not being able to and having to. He closed his mouth again and smiled. She looked at him for a moment longer and then bent and lifted the child into the buggy.

‘Bye, Spider-Man,’ Russell said.


He let the front door fall shut behind him with a bang. The hall inside was very quiet and the cat, who had been washing in a small patch of sunlight on the stairs, stopped to look at him.

‘Edie?’

She came slowly out of the kitchen holding a mug.

‘Edie—’

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Oh my God, sorry. I didn’t listen to it’. Russell put his bag down. ‘Didn’t listen to what?’

‘Your message. I was fiddling about upstairs and I heard the telephone and I didn’t do anything about it. And then I got deflected. As you do’.

Russell came closer and gave her a brief kiss on the cheek.

‘I didn’t leave you a message. I came home on impulse’. Edie looked suspicious. ‘What impulse?’

‘Uneasiness,’ Russell said. He looked into her mug. ‘Can I have some of that?’

‘It’s green tea,’ Edie said. ‘It is supposed to be invigorating and it’s filthy’.

‘Brown tea, then’.

Edie turned.

‘What are you uneasy about?’

Russell went past her and crossed the kitchen towards the kettle.

‘You know perfectly well’.

‘I am waiting for it to pass,’ Edie said. ‘Like glandular fever’.

‘Ben left a month ago’.

‘What’s a month?’

Russell ran water into the kettle. ‘Quite a long time’.

‘What do you want of me?’ Edie demanded. Russell plugged the kettle into the wall and switched it on.

‘When Ben left, I wanted you to look my way again. Now I would settle for you being able just to rouse yourself, climb out of this – this inertia’.

‘Inertia,’ Edie repeated calmly.

‘Yes’.

‘Like – like not jumping up and down, every time you come home—’

‘No!’ Russell shouted.

‘Then—’

‘Like,’ he said more calmly, ‘not even bothering to listen to your telephone messages’.

He went back past her out of the kitchen to the answer-phone in the hall. Edie drifted to the window and thought, without any urgency, that, if anything, the glass downstairs was even dirtier than the glass upstairs.

‘It was Freddie Cass,’ Russell said, from the doorway.

Edie said, not turning round, ‘I don’t know anyone called Freddie Cass’.

‘Freddie Cass, the director,’ Russell said. His voice was excited. ‘The director of Ghosts’.

Edie turned.

‘He wants you to ring him. He wants you to ring him now’.


Ben had been on an assignment as assistant photographer taking pictures of a major newspaper editor at Canary Wharf. The editor was being photographed for a feature piece in a business magazine that had wanted independent pictures, which was something of a coup for Ben’s boss, and one he had taken very seriously. The editor had been polite but had clearly had a thousand other things on his mind beyond being photographed in such a way as to ensure similar future commissions for Ben’s boss, so the session had had a kind of tension to it, which resulted in Ben’s boss giving Ben a needlessly hard time about every last little thing. As a consequence, Ben had dropped a still-damp Polaroid, mixed up the sequence of some black-and-white film, and held a reflector at an angle which, his boss said, any amateur prat could see bounced light off the ceiling and not the subject. As the subject was still in the room, trying to look simultaneously relaxed and in charge in his double-cuffed shirtsleeves, Ben could not point out that he was only obeying instructions and, if they were wrong, they were hardly his fault.

In the midst of all of this, Ben remembered, in the slow, amazed way he often did remember things, that his brother, Matthew, also worked somewhere in Canary Wharf. He couldn’t remember where or who for, but the idea of Matthew suddenly seemed a most attractive alternative to returning on the Docklands Light Railway with his boss, who would have been stressed out by the photographic session and consequently anxious to take his stress out on somebody else. Ben mumbled that he needed a pee, and went out into the corridor outside the newspaper boardroom, and scrolled to Matthew’s number on his mobile.

‘Wow,’ Matthew said, ‘Ben?’

‘Mmm’.

‘Where are you?’

‘I’m here’. ‘Where?’

‘In your office’.

‘What are you doing here?’

Ben leaned against the nearest wall.

‘Working. Nearly done’.

‘Right—’ ‘You free?’ ‘What, now?’

‘Half an hour or so—’

‘Well, yes. Yes, I could be’.

‘I need a beer,’ Ben said. ‘This afternoon has pretty well done my head in’.

‘Fine. Fine. It – it would be good to see you’. ‘You too, bruv’. ‘Don’t do that’.

‘What?’

‘Don’t,’ Matthew said, ‘use that fake East End talk’.

“Scuse me’.

‘It’s phoney crap—’

‘What’s eating you?’ Ben said.

‘Nothing’.

Ben looked down the corridor. A girl was walking away from him, silhouetted against the light from the window at the end. She was a lovely sight, tall, high heels. Naomi was tall too, nearly as tall as Ben. He suddenly felt rather better.

‘Half an hour,’ Ben said. ‘OK?’

‘Yes,’ Matthew said. His voice had dropped a little. He sounded, abruptly, very tired. ‘See you’.


‘ We can drink in here,’ Matthew said. Ben peered through the glass doors. ‘Looks a bit posh—’

‘It’s all posh round here,’ Matthew said. ‘Artificial and posh’.

He pushed the door open, leaving it to swing in Ben’s face. Ben followed him and seized his arm. ‘What are you like?’

‘What?’

‘What are you in such a strop about?’

Matthew sighed. He looked, Ben thought, not just tired but drained and without that air of confident togetherness that Ben had supposed, for the last five years or so, to be inbuilt. He watched Matthew order, and pay for, a couple of bottles of beer, and then he followed him to a table in a corner, under a plasma television screen showing a picture of some giant freeway interchange, photographed from directly above. Matthew put the beer bottles on the table and glanced up at the screen.

‘I watched the rugby World Cup on that’.

Ben grunted. He put his duffel bag down on the floor and eased himself into an Italian metal chair.

‘How’s things—’

Matthew went on looking at the screen. ‘OK’.

Ben said, ‘My afternoon was shite. He just put me down the whole time over stuff he’d told me to do anyway’.

Matthew glanced away.

‘But apart from this afternoon, everything’s OK?’

‘Aren’t you going to sit down?’

‘Yes’.

‘Well, sit then. I can’t talk to you if you’re standing’.

‘Sorry,’ Matthew said. He sat down slowly, on the chair next to Ben’s. Then he said, ‘Sorry to snap at you’.

Ben took a swallow of beer. He pulled off his knitted hat and ruffled his hair.

‘That’s OK’.

Matthew looked at him.

‘And you really are OK? Apart from this afternoon’. ‘I’m great’. ‘And Naomi—’

‘Great. And the flat. It’s cool. I really like it’. ‘You look as if you do’.

‘Don’t tell Mum,’ Ben said, ‘but I should have gone before, two years ago, three’. Matthew picked up his beer.

‘We all do that’. ‘Do what?’

‘Stay too long’. Ben eyed him.

‘At home?’ ‘And the rest’.

‘Matt,’ Ben said, ‘what’s happened?’ Matthew put the neck of the bottle in his mouth and took it out again. ‘I’m not sure’.

‘You and Ruth—’

‘I think it’s over,’ Matthew said abruptly.

‘Christ’.

‘It just happened. It was so sudden. And I didn’t see it coming’. He took a mouthful of beer and shut his eyes tightly, as if swallowing it was an effort. ‘And I should have’.

‘Hey,’ Ben said. He leaned towards his brother. ‘Hey, Matt. Mate—’

‘She wants to buy a flat,’ Matthew said, ‘and I can’t afford to. I can’t afford to because it’s been costing me every penny I earn to live the way we do and I’m a stupid bloody idiot to have got in this mess. I am twenty-eight years old, Ben, and I’m back where I was at your age. I feel – I feel—’ He stopped and then he said in a furious whisper, ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter’.