Faye had three children-Timmy, Carol and Diana-and was married to a solicitor, Bobby Gow, with a practice in Banbury. Every time Hope contemplated the life Faye led she was always appalled by its waste, its lack of even faint excitement, its rigid cultivation of the norm. They had been good friends in their teens-Faye was three years older-but approaching adulthood had soon separated them in almost every regard.

Hope suspected that her sister's life-superficially serene, blessed and prosperous-was in reality a long catalog of large and small dissatisfactions. And she could see her restlessness with this lot, and the endless compromises she had to make to live with it, hardening her year by year. For Faye, the passing of time only signaled the mounting, overwhelming unlikelihood of her life ever being different; the steady retreat of alternatives to her current existence-however whimsical, however minor-ever being explored.

Hope felt sorry for Faye, sinking in the quicksand of prudence, moderation and propriety, but she knew that was the one emotion, the one act of sympathy, she could never express. Faye would rather die than have Hope feel sorry for her. That was not the way the world was meant to be organized: the whole purpose of putting up with this dullness, this inevitability, this pretense, was to allow Faye to feel sorry for Hope. Not the other way round, most definitely. So Hope said nothing, and Faye felt safer for a little longer.

Hope tinkled her teaspoon in her cup as she stirred in more sugar. A silence had fallen.

"Where's Timmy?" Hope said. She liked Timmy, Faye's eight-year-old son. He was a solemn, sweet boy with odd, obsessive interests.

"Well, he's not here."

"Where is he?"

"Away at school. Since last year. Hope, really, I don't think you listen to a word I say."

The family assembled at seven before the guests arrived. They toasted Ralph with champagne. Ralph raised his tumbler of whisky in response and delivered a tearful, polished, and extravagant hymn of praise to his "own special darlings." Hope noticed how avidly he swilled down his drink and presented the glass for more. At this rate he wouldn't see dessert. Hope watched her mother stiffen slightly, but only for a moment. Her mother, Eleanor, was dressed smartly in pink and cream; even her blond hair had a faint strawberry rinse through it. She was an attractive woman who, in her fifties, had recognized that the addition of a little weight would be more advantageous to her appearance than the effort of constant dieting. So she had let herself grow a little plumper. Her skin was fresh and she carried the extra pounds with aplomb. Hope could see that even now she was desirable. She had large breasts and the general impression she gave was of a cosseted, elegant softness. She spent a lot on her clothes and jewelry. She was bright and shrewd. Hope saw her discreetly remove Ralph's glass as he fussed over Faye's little girls.

"Super you could come," she heard Bobby Gow's voice at her side. She turned. "Shame about John."

"Well...us lot. All the locals. I'd run a mile if I was him."

Bobby Gow gave an edgy smile and looked uncertain. Was she joking or was she serious? If he disagreed, would she think him stuffy? If he agreed with her, would it seem disloyal?...Hope could sense him going through the options.

"All work and no play," he said finally, inanely, and gave a little laugh.

"So. How's life, Bob?" Hope said.

He frowned and smiled weakly. "Fine, fine...well, you know, can't complain. Soliciting away." Hope was sure he had said this to her on every occasion they had met.

"How's Timmy getting on?" She was beginning to feel exhausted already.

Gow waggled his hands, signaled indecisiveness. "I'm afraid he's taking a bit of a while settling in. But it's a good school." He swallowed and looked at his champagne. "Fundamentally. Anyway," he went on, "do him good to get away from Mother."

"Really? Why?"

He didn't answer. "We miss him terribly, though, old Timbo. Specially the girls."

"I bet they do."

"Anyway. There we go." He pulled a smile. He looks like a man in agony, Hope thought, dying to escape me.

"How about a refill," he said abruptly, snatching her glass away. He went in search of more champagne and Hope turned to her nieces, Carol and Diana, pretty in their party dresses. She wished she liked them better.

Hope was wearing an old black velvet dress with long sleeves and a V-neck. She had pinned her hair up loosely round her head and at her throat she wore an old pearl choker that belonged to her mother. She idled unnecessarily in the kitchen, reluctant to rejoin the throng in the drawing room again. Most of the guests had arrived by now, about eighty all told, and the volume of noise was growing by the minute as they drank champagne and guzzled canapes.

Little Diana came into the kitchen with an empty tray and Hope gave her a new one filled with miniature vol au vents.

"What're these, Auntie Hope?" Diana said.

"Vol au vents. And please don't call me Auntie, Diana, OK?"

"What should I call you then?"

"Hope. That's my name."

"But Mummy says-"

"Tell Mummy I don't mind. Off you go."

Hope followed her out. The room was tight with people. The men, young and old, in black tie; the women-so many blondes-painted and lacquered. The noise was insufferable.

"Hey, Hope! Hope Dunbar!" someone drawled loudly at her elbow.

She looked round. It was a young man, fair-haired with a flushed, bright face that was vaguely recognized. She couldn't remember his name. He kissed her cheeks.

"How are you? Haven't seen you for...God, how long? You committed matrimony recently, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did. I mean I am married."

"Been away? You're very tanned. D'you ski?"

"No. I spent all summer working out of doors."

"Really?" He was genuinely astonished. "What are you? Some sort of riding instructor or something?"

"I'm an ecologist."

"Oh..." A worried look came into his eyes. "Sounds great. Anyway." He began to look around the room. "Where's hubby? Love to meet him."

Hope stood beside her mother as the guests filed into the marquee. Round tables had been set out in a semicircle facing a wooden dance floor. On a dais beyond that, the band's instruments stood-piano, drums, a double bass leaned against a high stool, and a saxophone held in an iron frame-awaiting their musicians. The tables were covered in pink cloths, the marquee was lined in ruched bands of pink-and-white material, and white flower arrangements stood on truncated doric columns here and there. It looked pretty and tasteful. Everyone knew where to sit. Eleanor Dunbar smiled sweetly at her guests as they moved by.

"It looks lovely," Hope said.

Her mother looked at her. "So do you," she said. "In an untidy sort of way." She gestured at Hope's hair. "Should've let me put it up for you."

"I'll be back in the woods tomorrow. It's hardly worth it. Should we sit down?"

Her mother held her back a second. "Keep an eye on Ralph, will you, darling?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I have to table-hop and while I'm away he'll drink too much."

"It is his seventieth birthday."

She didn't smile. "Of course it is. But I don't want him falling down drunk before the main course. Just...watch him for me."

They moved toward their table.

"He seems all right," Hope said.

"You haven't been here for a while. He's not funny anymore."

Her mother's face was expressionless. Hope felt a sudden tightness, a coiling, inside her.

"I am sorry, Mummy," she said. "I'm so sorry."

Her mother stopped, looked at her and smiled formally.

"Don't pity me, Hope. I won't have that."

Hope felt a real depression settle on her when she saw she was sitting between Bobby Gow and a man called Gerald Paul, an old friend of the family. He was a retired theatrical agent whom her mother had worked for before she married Ralph. Hope rather suspected that they might have been lovers in the past. Perhaps they still were, for all she knew.

Bobby Gow actually turned away from her when she sat down, so she was obliged to talk to Paul. He had a thin, wide mouth full of what looked like brown impacted teeth, set at all angles. Oddly enough, his breath did not smell disgusting, only slightly sweet, as if he had rinsed his mouth with vanilla essence.

"Wonderful to see Ralph looking so well," Paul said, looking across the table. "And your mother. Gorgeous creature."

Hope looked at her parents: her mother, licked by the salacity of Paul's gaze; her father, listening, his hand constantly stroking his beard.... To his left, Faye gave Carol a sip from her glass of champagne. Paul was reminiscing about "wonderful Eleanor." Hope closed her eyes and felt a sudden desire to be in Little Barn Wood. She decided she would leave the room while the speeches were made.

She took a deep breath and spooned out a ball of avocado from the pear in front of her. A waiter came and leaned over her mother, then circled the table to her.

"Mrs. Clearwater, telephone for you."

She excused herself and went through to the sitting room. It must be John, she thought, as she picked up the receiver. It was Graham Munro.

"What is it, Graham?" she said, interrupting his apologies.

He explained. That afternoon three of the Knap estate farm workers had been passing through the beech wood near the old manor house when they heard an unusual noise. On investigating, they discovered a man digging a "trench system"-Munro's words-on the lake bank. Apparently some forty yards of trench over three feet deep had been dug. The workers challenged the man and remonstrated with him. Then they frog-marched him to the estate offices.

"It seems he became violent and tried to run away at that stage," Munro said, his voice sonorous with unspoken apologies. "I'm afraid the men had to restrain him forcibly."

"Is he all right?"

"Just cuts and bruises. I'm told."

"Haven't you seen him?"

The estate office, having established John's identity, phoned Munro in West Lulworth. He, in turn, telephoned John and told him to go to the cottage and wait for him there.

"Unfortunately," Munro said, "I couldn't go straight away and by the time I got to your place there was no sign of him."

"What do you mean?"

"He'd gone. The lights were on and the front door was unlocked." He paused. "That's why I thought I should phone you. There was a note as well."

"What does it say?"

"I can't read it. It's just a scrawl. It does say London on it, though. I think."

"He's probably gone home. Thanks, Graham."

When she hung up she thought instantly: stupid, stupid bastard. And then, selfishly, that here was the perfect excuse to flee the party. Her mother came out to find her and Hope explained the problem, saying only that John had fallen ill and that she thought she should go straight home. For a moment Eleanor looked like she was going to protest, but she thought better of it.

"Well...just say goodbye to your father before you go. I'll get him for you." She leaned forward to give Hope a kiss.

Hope felt her mother's soft breasts squash against her and her nose was filled with the scent of rosewater perfume. She held her for a while.

"Come down and see me, will you, darling? When it's quiet. Just spend a little time with me."

"Of course. Very soon."

"I never see you these days." She looked at her fixedly. "I miss you." Then she smiled. "I'll get Ralph."

Hope went upstairs and packed her case quickly. She didn't bother to change. She pulled on her coat and took the combs out of her hair.

Ralph was waiting for her downstairs. She told him quickly what the problem was.

"I suppose you'd better go," he said glumly and grudgingly, and kissed her. "What's wrong with John? Has he gone mad or something?"

Hope managed a laugh. "No, of course not. Why do you say that? He's just working too hard."

"Big mistake."

She squeezed his arm. "Have a lovely party."

"Fat chance." He walked her to the door. "Trouble is," he said, "I'm so fucking bored. That's why I drink. I know your mother isn't happy, but I just can't help it, you see."

Hope thought he would begin to cry at this, but his eyes were clear and his voice firm. "I hate this," he said.

"Come on, Ralphie. Enjoy yourself. All your family's here. We all love you and so do all your old friends."

He looked at her. "All my old friends...what a crowd of shits."

She caught the local train from Banbury to Oxford. She would be in plenty of time to catch one of the last trains up to London. She sat in the overlit, overheated compartment looking out at the black countryside and seeing only her own reflection in the window staring back. She thought about John and forced herself to recognize that eccentricities were becoming problems, and that quirks of behavior were developing into warning signs.... But there was a reluctance in her to take this recognition any further. And when she started to ask herself what she should do next, she seemed to run into a thick smog of inertia and apathy. Nothing was clear; no direction out seemed obvious.

That mood gave way to something colder: a kind of anger began to grow in her. She had not bargained for this. She had not expected this turn of events. Her brilliant, unusual man was not meant to fall ill in this way, to become unstable and troublesome.

She confronted her selfishness in the same way as she faced her image in the black cold glass of the railway carriage and told herself to reconsider. To her vague alarm she realized she was not prepared to do so.

At Oxford station she had a wait of twenty minutes. She sat in the grimy cafeteria amongst the usual collection of lovelorn teenagers, very poor people and mumbling drunks and felt her anger still lodged hard within her, like a brick beneath her ribcage.

No, she said to herself, this is unfair. What right did he have to behave like this? To be so perverse and heedless? She thought of him now, waiting for her in the flat, and tried to imagine what mood he would currently be occupying: breezy and indifferent, perhaps? Or zany and amused? Or mute and helpless, or sulky and withdrawn?...She knew them all by now, she realized, far too well. And she could hear in her head the respective monologues being played out. I didn't mean...I never thought...I wasn't sure...I don't give a damn....

She felt weary and careworn, in the way one often does before the big job of work is tackled; that sense of premature or projected exhaustion that is the breeding ground of all procrastination.

The London train pulled in and pulled out again. Hope sat on in the squalid buffet, thinking, and then took a taxi to Meredith's cottage. There were still lights on upstairs in the bedroom. Meredith came to the door, tousled and bland in her dressing gown.

"What the hell are you doing here?"