"Is he not?"

"He's dead."

"You see, this is all news to me. Anyway, what you're saying is I'm an idiot."

"Huh? Where did that come from?"

"Well, I've listened to it hundreds of times, and it still doesn't feel to me as though I've emptied it. So I must be daft. It's all just facts, isn't it, as far as you're concerned? It's a rotten album, fact. And if I can't grasp the facts, then that makes me stupid."

"No, no, I'm sorry, I didn't mean that."

"So, go on. Square your feelings about Juliet Juliet with mine." with mine."

He studied her. As far as he could tell, she was really irritated, which had to mean that she really did have something invested in the music. And whatever it was, he was dumping all over it.

He shrugged.

"I can't. Unless I say, you know, everyone's opinion is valid."

"Which you don't believe?"

"Not in this case, no. See . . . It's like I'm a chef, and you're eating in my restaurant, and you're telling me how great my food is. But I know I pissed all over it before I served it up. So, you know, your opinion is valid, but . . ."

Annie wrinkled her nose and laughed. "But it demonstrates a certain lack of taste."

"Exactly."

"So Tucker Crowe thinks his fans can't taste pee when it's served to them."

That was exactly what Tucker Crowe thought during that tour. He hated himself, sure, but he also despised everyone who lapped it all up. That was one of the reasons it had been so easy to quit.

"You know that bad people can make great art, don't you?" said Annie.

"Yes, of course. Some of the people whose art I admire the most are assholes."

"Dickens wasn't nice to his wife."

"Dickens didn't write a memoir called I'm Nice to My Wife I'm Nice to My Wife."

"You didn't make an album called Julie Beatty Is a Deep and Interesting Human Being and I Didn't Impregnate Anyone Else While I Was with Her Julie Beatty Is a Deep and Interesting Human Being and I Didn't Impregnate Anyone Else While I Was with Her. It doesn't matter how it came about. You think it was all accidental. But like it or not, believe it or not, the music that Julie inspired was wonderful."

He threw up his hands in mock despair and laughed.

"What?" said Annie.

"I can't believe I told you all those things, and we've ended up talking about how great I am."

"But we're not. You've confused the two things again. You're not great. You're a, a shallow, feckless, self-indulgent . . . wanker wanker."

"Thanks."

"Well, you were, anyway. We're talking about how great your album album is." is."

He smiled.

"Okay. Compliment accepted, if not believed. And abuse accepted, too. I can honestly say that nobody has ever called me a wanker before. I quite enjoyed it."

"You can only honestly say that you've never heard heard anybody call you a wanker before. I'll bet it's happened. Don't you ever read the Internet? Actually, I know you do. That's how we met." anybody call you a wanker before. I'll bet it's happened. Don't you ever read the Internet? Actually, I know you do. That's how we met."

She paused. He could see that she wanted to say something and she was stopping herself.

"Go on," he said.

"I have a confession to make, too. And it's almost as bad as yours."

"Good."

"You know the guy who wrote the first review on that website? The one where you found mine?"

"Duncan somebody. Talking about wankers."

Annie stared at him, then clapped her hands to her mouth. He'd have worried that he'd said something out of turn, except that her eyes were bright with a kind of astonished mischief.

"What?"

"Tucker Crowe knows who Duncan is and he called him a wanker. I cannot tell you how weird that is."

"You know that guy?"

"He's . . . This was his house, up until a few weeks ago."

Tucker stared at her.

"So he's the one? The man you wasted all those years with?"

"He's the one. That's why I've heard your music so much. That's why I got to hear Juliet, Naked Juliet, Naked. That's why I posted a review on his website."

"And . . . Oh, shit. He lives in this town still?"

"A few minutes' walk away."

"Jesus Christ."

"Does that worry you?"

"It's like . . . Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, I have to walk into his. That's incredible."

"Except not. As I said. Because without him, we wouldn't know each other. I'd like you to meet him."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because (a) he's a fucking fruitcake, and (b) I might kill him, and (c) if I didn't kill him, he'd drop dead from the excitement anyway."

"Well, 'c' is a definite possibility."

"Why do you want me to meet him?"

"Because no matter what you think, he's not stupid. Not about art, anyway. And you're the only artist alive who's made any sense to him, just about."

"The only artist alive? Jesus Christ. I could write you a list of a hundred people better than me off the top of my head."

"It's not about better, Tucker. You speak to him. For him. He connects. You plug right into a very complicated-looking socket in his back. I don't know why, but you do."

"So I don't need to meet him, then. We've already talked."

"Oh, it's up to you. It's weird. He was unfaithful, and that relationship cost me a lot. But you staying here and me not telling him . . . That seems like a betrayal beyond all comprehension."

"So tell him after I've gone."

They finished their tea, and Annie found a spare duvet and pillows for the sofa. Jackson was fast asleep in the spare room; Tucker had already lost an argument about who was going to sleep in her bed.

"Thank you, Annie," he said. "Really." And he kissed her on the cheek.

"It's nice, having people to stay," she said. "Hasn't happened since Duncan left."

"Oh. Yeah. Thanks for that, too." He kissed her on the other cheek and went upstairs.

Saturday morning was, despite Annie's warnings, clear and bright and cold, but in Tucker's considered opinion the town didn't look a whole lot better: without the cheap nighttime neon it just looked tired, like a middle-aged hooker wearing no makeup. They walked down to the sea after breakfast; they took a detour so that Annie could show her visitors where the museum was, and they stopped at a store where the candy was kept in jars, and you had to ask for a quarter-pound of what you wanted. Jackson bought some lurid-looking pink candy shrimp.

And then, while they were down on the beach trying to teach Jackson how to skip stones on the waves, Annie said, "Uh-oh."

A pudgy middle-aged man was jogging toward them, red-faced and sweaty, despite the temperature. He stopped when he spotted Annie.

"Hello," he said.

"Hi, Duncan. I didn't have you down as a jogger."

"No, me neither. It's a, a new thing. New regime."

Tucker knew enough about the relationships between ex-partners to realize that this exchange was bursting with meaning, but there was nothing on Annie's face he could read. The four of them stood there for a moment. Annie was clearly trying to work out the best way of breaking the news, but Duncan made a big deal of sticking his hand out, as if he were being magnanimous in some way.

"Hello," said Duncan. "Duncan Thomson."

"Hello," said Tucker. "Tucker Crowe." He had never been more conscious of the weight of his own name.

Duncan dropped Tucker's hand as if it were red-hot and looked at Annie with real contempt.

"That's just pathetic," he said to Annie. And he jogged away.

The three of them watched as he plodded off along the beach.

"Why did that man call you pathetic?" said Jackson.

"It's complicated," said Annie.

"I want to know. He was mad at us."

"Well," said Tucker. "I think that man thought I wasn't who I said I was. He thought Annie had told me to say that my name was, was my name because she thought it would be funny."

There was a beat, while Jackson examined every side of this misunderstanding for any possible trace of humor.

"That's way not funny," said Jackson.

"No," said Tucker.

"So why did you think it would be?" Jackson addressed this question to Annie, as the originator of the incomprehensible joke.

"I didn't, sweetheart," said Annie.

"Dad just said you did."

"No, he said . . . You see, I know who your dad is. But that man doesn't. That man knows who Tucker Crowe is, but he doesn't think that's who your dad is."

"Who does he think Dad is? Fucker?"

Annie presumably knew better than to laugh at the sound of an obscenity emerging from the mouth of a six-year-old, but she laughed anyway. Tucker understood the impulse. It was the combination of the curse with the boy's earnestness, his attempt to understand what had just happened.

"Yes!" said Tucker. "That's exactly who he thinks I am."

"There's actually a further complication," said Annie. "I know the confessional window has closed, but . . ." She took a deep breath. "He also thinks you're somebody I'm . . . seeing."

"Why would he think that?"

"He asked about the photo on the fridge, and I didn't want to tell him the truth, and . . ."

At least Tucker now understood the implied generosity of the handshake.

"So there we are," said Tucker. "That man thinks I'm Annie's boyfriend. And he thinks Fucker is Tucker."

"I was right," said Jackson. "It's so, so not funny."

"No."