There was a considerable silence. Chrissie took the egg pan off the cooker and continued to stir with elaborate concentration. Tamsin leaned against the nearest wal and folded her arms, fixing her gaze resolutely on some midpoint halfway down the kitchen. Dil y stayed where she was, listening. Then, after what seemed an unconscionable time, she said, ‘Oh wow,’ and, ‘Jesus, Amy,’ and then, ‘You’d better talk to Mum. Hadn’t you?’

Chrissie stopped stirring. Tamsin stood upright. Chrissie held her hand out for the phone.

‘Big deal, Ames,’ Dil y said into the phone, taking no notice.

Chrissie took a step closer.

‘ Please—’

‘Give it to her!’ Tamsin said sharply.

‘They’re going mad here,’ Dil y said. ‘Shal I pass you over?’ Then she laughed. ‘Countdown,’ she said. ‘Ready? Three, two, one, Mothah!’

She handed the telephone to Chrissie.

‘And?’ Tamsin demanded.

Dil y ignored her. She was watching Chrissie. Chrissie was listening intently. Then she said, ‘But I want you home tomorrow. You promised you would be back tomorrow—’

‘She’s not staying?’ Tamsin hissed.

‘She’s fal en in love with some music thing,’ Dil y said, stil watching Chrissie. ‘Some folk-music degree, or something. Sounded a bit weird to me.’

‘ Folk-music degree?’

‘She sounded completely mental about it. Newcastle University or something. Where is Newcastle?’

‘Wel , obviously I can’t force you,’ Chrissie said, ‘but it does seem very strange, very sudden. You’ve only been there ten minutes—’

‘They’ve brainwashed her,’ Tamsin said.

‘I wish somebody’d wash your brain,’ Dil y said with spirit. ‘You mightn’t think you’re right al the time if they did.’

‘You can be such a little cow—’

‘Al right,’ Chrissie said, ‘al right. Of course I’m not going to forbid you. I couldn’t forbid you, in any case. I suppose—’ She stopped. Then she said with difficulty, ‘I suppose I should wish you luck. Wel , I do. I do wish you luck, darling. If this is what you want.’

‘Oh my God,’ Tamsin said, uncrossing her arms and flinging them out dramatical y. ‘This family is fal ing apart.’

Dil y went over to the cooker and prodded at the egg with a wooden spoon.

‘It’s al gone rubbery—’

‘Yes,’ Chrissie said. She sounded tired, defeated. ‘Yes. Wel , ring and tel me. Or text me. At least text me. Oh, and Amy? I sold the house. Yes.

Yes, I think so, I think that too. OK, OK, darling. Night night.’

She took the phone away from her ear and held it, looking down at it.

‘What have they done to her?’ Tamsin said.

When Amy woke, it was broad daylight and the uncurtained window by the bed was ful of the wide, high, cloud-streaked Northern sky. She lay there for a while, so that her mind could swim slowly to the surface, past al the events of the day before, past the lunch and the conversation, past the discoveries and the phone cal home, and past – much more savouringly – the marvel ous unexpected midnight hours when Scott had at last sat down at the piano and played, and she had retrieved her flute from her rucksack and joined him, and it was better than talking, better than anything, better even than playing with Dad had been, because Scott played like an equal, played as if only the music mattered and who cared who was fol owing or leading.

It was past two in the morning before either of them thought of the time. And then Amy had discovered she was starving and they had eaten a bag of cashew nuts and some cheese slices Scott found in the fridge and shared a battered KitKat from the bottom of his work bag. Going into his bedroom, Amy had been almost overwhelmed by the need to thank him, to say that she felt rescued, guided, excited, but had not known how to do any of that without embarrassing both of them, so she had put her arms round his neck, awkwardly and in silence, and he had somehow understood, and had given her a quick, hard hug, and said, ‘You’re not the only one who’s had a good day,’ and let her go.

Then he said, ‘I’l be gone in the morning, remember. It’s Monday.’

‘Oh—’

‘I took a half-day off, Friday. Can’t do more right now.’

‘No, I know, I knew—’

He was tossing a pil ow and an unzipped sleeping bag on to the sofa.

‘Mr Harrison’l look after you. He’l show you the Sage. He knows his way round the music scene better than I do, in any case.’

Mr Harrison! Amy shot up in bed. Where was her watch? What was the time? What would happen if she kept Mr Harrison waiting?

‘It was opened in 2004,’ Bernie Harrison said. ‘It’s bigger than two footbal pitches and twice the height of The Angel of the North. And up there,’ he pointed to the vast curved roof soaring high above them, ‘there’s six hundred-some-odd panes of glass, and each one weighs more than two baby elephants.’

Amy was turning slowly, head thrown back, gawping.

‘I’ve run out of things to say—’

‘I’m old enough to remember the Northern Sinfonia being founded,’ Bernie said. ‘It was 1958. Michael Hal . I was sixteen, same age as your—’

He stopped. ‘No, I suppose she isn’t your anything, Margaret, is she?’

Amy retrieved her dazzled gaze from the immensity of the Sage’s roof.

‘Not real y—’

‘Your father’s first wife is just your father’s first wife.’

Amy swal owed.

‘She – she was his only wife. He and Mum never—’

Bernie Harrison cleared his throat.

‘Wel , don’t let it trouble you. Doesn’t trouble me. You made your mark with Margaret, I can tel you.’

‘I hope she wasn’t upset about me not staying—’

‘She’s got a mind of her own and she likes to see one in other people. I’ve known her since she was a stroppy little object in pigtails. We grew up in a different world from now, Margaret and me. You wouldn’t believe, now, our world had ever been, sometimes. It was hard, though. You can’t real y miss something that hard.’

Amy looked past him, along the immense shining spaces of floor, to the glass wal s and the view of the river. She said a little hesitantly, ‘So, the Grand Hotel—’

‘Yes,’ Bernie said firmly. ‘She’d deny it, but that’s why we like places like the Grand Hotel. We’ve made our mark and our brass and we like value for it. Quality.’

‘Of course.’

‘It may be different in London—’

‘Please don’t talk about London.’

Bernie glanced at her.

‘Very wel .’

‘I’ve just fal en in love with al this—’

‘It doesn’t take half an eye to see that.’

‘Everyone,’ Amy said, ‘has been so lovely to me.’

Bernie indicated that Amy should fol ow him across to the stupendous windows, to lean on the steel balustrade and look down on the river and the bridges.

He said, looking at the view, ‘We’ve al got something to give each other.’

‘I haven’t,’ Amy said, ‘I haven’t got anything. I’ve only just left school. I couldn’t even buy my own train ticket up here.’

‘You’re too sharp to take me literal y. It’s not about the money.’

‘Not having any makes you a bit helpless—’

‘Are you going to let that stand in your way?’

‘No,’ Amy said uncertainly.

‘There’s ways and means. There’s grants. There’s charities that like giving bursaries for music. There’l be a way if you want it.’

‘I want it so much—’

‘Wel ,’ Bernie said, ‘we’l see. You’d have to work hard for a year, you’d have to get some experience. But if something comes of it, it’l cheer us al up, I can tel you. We’ve got in a bit of a rut.’

‘Up here?’ Amy said, incredulous, gesturing at the slim white arc of the Mil ennium Bridge. ‘Up here? With al this?’

‘We’ve grown up with al this,’ Bernie said. ‘We’ve watched this city come alive again. My mother worked in a sweet factory in North Shields, and I drive a Jaguar and I like a fancy place to eat. But for al that, you keep needing a new energy, you never stop looking for the next little push and shove. I’l tel you something. I’ve got a good business here, a solid business. This place – wel , this place means I can think of performers I couldn’t even consider ten years ago. But I stil look to change, I look to improve al the time, and don’t ask me who for, because I’ve got no children and I don’t know who for, in the future, I only know it’s for me, right now. And what I want right now is for Margaret to come in with me, and manage the areas of the business that she manages better than anyone. She knows the North-East entertainment business like the back of her hand. And she won’t come. She goes fiddling on with that little tinpot business of hers, and she won’t come.’

‘Why?’

‘Because,’ Bernie said, ‘she’s stuck in a rut of her own.’

Amy put both hands on the rail and leaned back, her feet braced.

‘I thought I was stuck.’

‘You’re never stuck at eighteen.’

‘But if it’s how you feel—’

Bernie Harrison glanced at her.

‘Exactly. And you being young and being struck with al this made us old fogeys feel a whole lot better. Why else am I here and not in my office?’

Amy straightened up.

‘Thank you very much for that.’

‘I’m not doing it for you, young lady.’

‘Aren’t you?’

He shrugged. He was laughing.

‘I never do anything without a motive. And I’ve got two motives this morning. One, I promised Margaret we’d al have lunch together.’

‘Oh,’ Amy said.

‘Oh good or oh bad?’

‘Oh fine,’ Amy said.

‘And the second thing, before we go any further, is I need to have an idea of you.’

‘An idea—’

‘As a musician,’ Bernie said.

‘How—’

Bernie turned. He gestured across the concourse.

‘Down there,’ he said, ‘down one level, is the music education centre. Workshops, practice rooms, teaching rooms, recording studios. We’re going down there now. I’ve set it up. There’s a flute down there, waiting for you, and I’m going to hear you play.’

The owner of the Highgate flat was in Los Angeles.

‘Oh my God,’ Chrissie said, ‘did I wake you?’

He did not sound quite sure.

‘Not real y—’

‘I forgot the time difference. I’m so sorry but I quite forgot about Pacific time. I just wanted—’

‘Yes?’

‘I just wondered if you’d let the flat—’

‘Oh no,’ he said. He sounded as if he was lying down. ‘No, I haven’t. I was kinda waiting for you—’

‘Wel ,’ Chrissie said, ‘I think it wil be OK. I think – I think I’ve sold my house.’

‘Good,’ he said, ‘good news—’

‘Could you possibly wait a bit more? Could you wait two more weeks?’

‘Sure,’ he said, ‘I can wait two weeks.’ He yawned. ‘I’l even be over, I think, in two weeks. I’m not sure.’

‘That’s so kind of you—’

‘No,’ he said, ‘it’s business. My accountant says I should let it and you seem the right kind of person to let it to. That’s fine by me.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Cal me when you know—’

‘I wil . I’l cal you straight away—’

‘And go round there. Go and see it again. The housekeeper has the keys. Help yourself.’

‘Yes,’ Chrissie said, ‘thank you—’

‘See you,’ he said. He yawned again. ‘From sunny California, and a view of the freeway, I send greetings and say see you in Highgate.’

Chrissie put the phone down. The cal had been, despite the yawns, strangely elating. As was, to her surprise, the presence of the young couple’s surveyor in the house, tapping wal s and peering into cupboards in a manner that suggested he would be very, very disappointed if he found nothing amiss. Chrissie had made him tea – he’d been very specific, asking for only enough milk to cloud the tea, and one sugar – which he had left to get cold in the kitchen, but even that didn’t irritate her. She was beginning, cautiously, to believe that she was feeling better. Not al the time, and not reliably, dramatical y so, but she was distinctly aware that instead of believing she was at the mercy of Richie’s decisions, Richie’s erratic earning power and enthusiasm, Richie’s fans, Richie’s particular brand of sweetly expressed utter stubbornness, she was instead sensing the first stirrings of the luxury of being free to choose. She might have much – much – less money, and she would no longer own a property, but then she would no longer be in a position of dependency either, reliant upon another person for livelihood, for emotional reassurance.

The surveyor was coming down the stairs, slowly, stil making notes. He’d been in the house for hours, which suggested to Chrissie not so much that he was being exhaustively, dangerously thorough, as that he had, these days, far less work coming in.