He carried on looking at her. "Go on, say it. Say, 'I love you.'"

She couldn't do it.

"You see, I love you. And that's the problem."

The central heating clicked on.

Ray got to his feet. "I need to go to bed."

"It's only eight o'clock."

"I haven't slept for the past few days. Not properly...Sorry."

He went upstairs.

She looked around the room. For the first time since she and Jacob had moved in she could see it for what it was. Someone else's kitchen with a few of their belongings pasted onto it. The microwave. The enamel bread bin. Jacob's alphabet train.

Ray was right. She couldn't say it. She hadn't said it for a long time now.

Except that it was wrong, putting it like that.

There was an answer, somewhere. An answer to everything Ray had said which didn't make her feel selfish and stupid and mean-spirited. It was out there. If only she could see it.

She took hold of the ballpoint pen Ray had been playing with and lined it up with the grain of the tabletop. Maybe if she could place it with absolute accuracy her life wouldn't fall apart.

She had to do something. But what? Unpack the bags? Eat supper? It all seemed suddenly pointless.

She went to the sideboard. Three plane tickets for Barcelona were sitting in the toast rack. She opened the drawer and took out the invitations and the envelopes, the guest list and the list of presents. She took out the photocopied maps and hotel recommendations and the books of stamps. She carried it all to the table. She wrote names at the top of all the invitations and put them into the envelopes with the folded sheets of A4. She sealed them and stamped them and arranged them in three neat white paG.o.das.

When they were done she grabbed the house keys and took the envelopes to the end of the road and posted them, not knowing whether she was trying to make everything come out right by positive thinking, or whether she was punishing herself for not loving Ray enough.

55.

Jean booked an appointment and drove George to the surgery after school. and drove George to the surgery after school.

It was not something she was looking forward to. But Katie was right. It was best to take the bull by the horns.

In the event he proved surprisingly malleable.

She put him through his paces in the car. He was to tell Dr. Barghoutian the truth. None of this nonsense about sunstroke or coming over light-headed. He was not to leave until Dr. Barghoutian had promised to do something. And he was to tell her afterward exactly what Dr. Barghoutian had said.

She reminded him that Katie's wedding was coming up and that if he wasn't there to give his daughter away and make a speech then he was going to have some explaining to do.

He seemed to enjoy the bullying in some perverse way and promised to do everything she asked.

They sat next to one another in the waiting room. She tried to chat. About the Indian architect who had moved in across the road. About cutting the wisteria down before it got under the roof. But he was more interested in an elderly copy of OK OK magazine. magazine.

When his name was called she patted him gently on the leg to wish him luck. He made his way across the room, stooping a little and keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the carpet.

She tried a bit of her P. D. James but couldn't get into it. She'd never liked doctors' waiting rooms. Everyone always looked so shabby. As if they hadn't been taking enough care of themselves, which they probably hadn't. Hospitals weren't so bad. So long as they were clean. White paint and clean lines. People being properly ill.

She couldn't leave George. What she felt was irrelevant. She had to think about George. She had to think about Katie. She had to think about Jamie.

Yet when she imagined not leaving him, when she imagined saying no to David, it was like a light at the end of a dark tunnel going out.

She picked up George's OK OK magazine and read about the Queen Mother's hundredth birthday. magazine and read about the Queen Mother's hundredth birthday.

Ten minutes later George emerged.

"Well?" she asked.

"Can we go to the car?"

They went to the car.

Dr. Barghoutian had given him a prescription for antidepressants and booked him in to see the clinical psychologist the following week. Whatever the two of them had talked about it had clearly exhausted him. She decided not to pry.

They went to the chemist's. He didn't want to go inside, mumbling something she couldn't quite catch about "books on diseases," so she went in herself and picked up some brussels and carrots from the grocer's next door while they were doing the prescription.

He opened the bag as they were driving home and spent a great deal of time examining the bottle. Whether he was horrified or relieved she couldn't tell. Back in the kitchen she took charge of it, watched him swallow the first pill with a gla.s.s of water, then put the remainder in the cupboard above the toaster.

He said, "Thank you," and retreated to the bedroom.

She hung up the washing, made a coffee, filled in the check and the order form for the marquee people, then said she had to pop out to talk to the florist.

She drove over to David's house and tried to explain how impossible the decision was. He apologized for having made the offer at such a difficult time. She told him not to apologize. He told her that nothing had changed, and that he would wait for as long as she needed.

He put his arms round her and they held one another and it was like coming home after a long and difficult journey and she realized that this was something she could never give up.

56.

Jamie was drinking a cappuccino on Greek Street waiting for Ryan. a cappuccino on Greek Street waiting for Ryan.

He wasn't being entirely honorable, Ryan being Tony's ex. He knew that. But Ryan had agreed to come, so Ryan wasn't being entirely honorable, either.

f.u.c.k it. What was honor anyway? The only person he knew with real integrity was Maggie and she had spent her life since college picking up nasty diseases in flyblown corners of West Africa. Didn't even own furniture.

Besides, Tony had dumped him. If something happened with Ryan, what was wrong with that?

Fifteen minutes late.

Jamie got himself a second coffee and reopened Daniel Dennett's Consciousness Explained Consciousness Explained which he'd bought in one of his periodic fits of self-improvement (the exercise ball, that stupid opera CD...). At home he was reading which he'd bought in one of his periodic fits of self-improvement (the exercise ball, that stupid opera CD...). At home he was reading Pet Sematary, Pet Sematary, but reading that in public was like leaving the house in your underwear. but reading that in public was like leaving the house in your underwear.

This does not mean that the brain never uses "buffer memories" to cushion the interface between the brain's internal processes and the asynchronous outside world. The "echoic memory" with which we preserve stimulus patterns briefly while the brain begins to process them is an obvious example (Sperling, 1960; Neisser, 1967; see also Newell, Rosenbloom, and Laird, 1989, p. 1067).

There was a review on the back from The New York Review of Books The New York Review of Books which described it as "clear and funny." which described it as "clear and funny."

On the other hand, he didn't want to look like someone who was having difficulty reading Consciousness Explained Consciousness Explained. So he let his eyes drift over the pages, turning them every couple of minutes.

He thought about the new Web site and wondered whether the background music had been a mistake. He remembered last year's trip to Edinburgh. That purr of tires on the cobbles outside the hotel. He wondered why no one used them these days. Ambulances and wheelchairs, probably. He imagined Ryan placing his hand very briefly on his thigh and saying, "I'm so glad you got in touch."

Twenty-five minutes late. Jamie was beginning to feel obtrusive.

He gathered his belongings and bought a Telegraph Telegraph from the newsagent on the corner. He bought a pint of lager in the pub over the road, then found an empty table on the pavement from which he could keep an eye on the cafe. from the newsagent on the corner. He bought a pint of lager in the pub over the road, then found an empty table on the pavement from which he could keep an eye on the cafe.

Three minutes later a man wearing leather trousers and a white T-shirt slid onto the bench on the other side of the table. He put a motorcycle helmet down on the table, mimed a little gun with his right hand, pointed the barrel at Jamie's head, c.o.c.ked his thumb, made a clicking noise and said, "Estate agent."

Jamie was a little disturbed by this.

"Lowe and Carter," said the man.

"Er, yeh," said Jamie.

"Courier. We're in the building across the street. Pick up stuff from your place every now and then. You've got a desk in the far corner by the big window." He held out his hand to be shaken. "Mike."

Jamie shook it. "Jamie."

Mike picked up Consciousness Explained, Consciousness Explained, which Jamie had left on the table where it could give a general impression without needing to be physically read. There was a thick Celtic band tattooed around Mike's upper right arm. He examined the book briefly then put it down. "A masterful tapestry of deep insight." which Jamie had left on the table where it could give a general impression without needing to be physically read. There was a thick Celtic band tattooed around Mike's upper right arm. He examined the book briefly then put it down. "A masterful tapestry of deep insight."

Jamie wondered whether the man was psychiatrically ill.

Mike laughed quietly. "Read it off the back cover."

Jamie turned the book over to verify this.

Mike sipped his drink. "I like courtroom dramas myself."

For a second Jamie wondered whether Mike meant he liked doing things that resulted in him going to court.

"John Grisham, that kind of stuff," said Mike.

Jamie relaxed a little. "Having a bit of trouble with the book myself, to be honest."

"Been stood up?" Mike asked.

"No."

"I saw you sitting across the road."

"Well...Yeh."

"Boyfriend?" asked Mike.

"Ex-boyfriend's ex-boyfriend."

"Messy."

"You're probably right," agreed Jamie.

Glancing over Mike's shoulder, he saw Ryan standing outside the cafe, looking up and down the street. He seemed balder than Jamie remembered. He was wearing a beige raincoat and carrying a little blue rucksack.

Jamie turned away.

"Tell me a secret," said Mike. "Something you've never told anyone."

"When I was six my friend, Matthew, bet me I wouldn't pee in this flowerpot in my sister's bedroom."

"And you peed in the flowerpot."

"I peed in the flowerpot." Out of the corner of his eye Jamie saw Ryan shake his head and begin walking off toward Soho Square. "I guess it's not a secret, technically, because she found out. I mean, it smelt really bad after a few days." Ryan was gone. Jamie relaxed a little. "I had this little plastic guitar I'd got on holiday in Portugal. She burnt it. In the garden. But it burnt, like, amazingly well. I mean, Portugal probably didn't do Trading Standards in 1980. I remember this scream and the sound of strings snapping. She's still got this scar on her arm."

His parents would look at Mike and a.s.sume he stole cars. The razor cut, the five earrings. But this...this thing pa.s.sing between them, this nameless charge you could feel in the air...it made everything else seem shallow and stupid.

Mike held his eye and said, "You hungry?" and seemed to mean at least three things.

They went to a little Thai restaurant on Greek Street.

"I used to do tiling. Upmarket stuff. Fired Earth. Marble. Slate. Kitchens. Fireplaces. The bike's for money. Get me through the Alexander Technique and ma.s.sage courses. Then I'm going freelance. Make some money so I can move back up north so I can afford a place with a consulting room."

A fine drizzle was falling in the street. Jamie was three pints down and the lights reflecting off the wet vehicles were tiny stars.

"Actually," said Jamie, "the thing I like best about Amsterdam...well, the whole of Holland, actually, is...there are these amazing modern buildings everywhere. Over here people just build the cheapest thing possible."

Jamie was a bit vague about Alexander Technique. He couldn't really imagine Mike doing any kind of therapy. Too much swagger. But every so often Mike would touch Jamie's hand with a couple of fingers or look at him and smile and say nothing and there was a softness there which seemed s.e.xier for being so well hidden the rest of the time.

Nice arms, too. Little ridges of flesh over the veins, without being wiry. And strong hands.

The ma.s.sage. He could imagine that.

Mike suggested they go to a club. But Jamie didn't want to share him. He looked at the salt cellar and steeled himself and asked if Mike wanted to come back to his place and felt, as he always did, that little lurch, half thrill, half panic. Like the parachute jump. But better.

"Is this, like, an estate agent's dream pad? Steel balcony? Island kitchen with granite work surface? Arne Jacobsen chairs?"