Working her way along the travel section with a new synthetic duster that was supposed to attract dirt to it like a magnet, Vivien thought that it wasnat motherhood that had changed her: it was Max. Motherhood had been something she felt very comfortable with, something, indeed, that she would have liked to extend to brothers and sisters for Eliot if she had not been so preoccupied with not giving Max the opportunity for straying. Max had, in truth, given her a brief and glorious holiday from herself, but he hadnat changed her. He had tried, and part of her had hoped he would succeed, but the basic Vivien stayed the same and preferred, if she was honest, filling the freezer with pured carrot cubes for baby Eliot to suddenly dropping everything domestic in favour of some scheme of Maxas that meant packing for an unknown destination without any certain timetable or sartorial guidelines.

Eliot, Vivien couldnat help noticing, was not like his father. Nor was he much like her. Eliot wanted life to be as simple as possible, which meant as little pressure in it, and discussion about it, as possible. His Australian girlfriend, as far as Vivien could detect from conversations on the telephone, made laconic seem an urgent word. They had a flat five minutes from the beach, they worked lightly, played water sports and drank beer. The latest photograph Eliot had emailed back showed them both on the beach, thin and brown, with similar bleached spiky hair and bead bracelets. The girlfriend was called Ro.

aShort for Rosemary?a Vivien had asked.

aNo,a Eliot said, after a pause. His voice already had a faint Australian edge to it, making every statement a question. aNot short for anything. Just Roa.

When he had rung off a" aGotta go, Mum. Take carea -Vivien had cried a little. Then she had got up from the kitchen table where she had been crying, blown her nose and assembled the clothes for dry-cleaning a" folded, not dumped a" in a carrier bag. An hour later, she had managed to recount her conversation with Eliot to his father on the telephone without crying at all.

aThatas good,a Max said. She could hear the faint tap of laptop keys as he spoke. aGood for you, Vivi. Youare getting used to him being grown-upa. He paused and the tapping stopped. Then he said, in the voice he had always used to indicate he knew head chosen the right sister, aNot like Ediea.

Vivien leant against the section on Eastern Europe. She rested the duster on top of several city guides to Prague. Maybe Max was right. Maybe what made her cry after talking to Eliot was not that he was twenty-two and had chosen to live in Cairns, Queensland, Australia, but that he wasnat eight or ten any more, with a life that she had both detailed knowledge of and control over. And maybe that knowledge and control had, for a few years only, been absorbing enough for her not to fret about Max, about what he wanted and what she could a" and more importantly, couldnat a" provide. Crying for Eliot was crying for a lost small boy, not crying for a lost role, like Edie.

Vivien put a hand up and pushed her duster to the back of the Prague guides. Edie was distraught, really, quite unhinged by the last of her children going and pretty well indifferent to poor old Russellas feelings. Vivien liked Russell, always had, but you couldnat compare him to Max for dash and glamour, just as his children, his and Edieas children, were making, with the exception of Matt, who was the only one Max had ever had time for, a very amateurish business of leaving home. Poor Rosa: too proud to go home, too short of money to stay independent. And Ben living with a girl head met having his hair cut, one of the Saturday-morning juniors. She gave the final volumes of the travel section a little triumphant flourish of the duster. Poor Edie.

aFor how long?a Barney Ferguson said.

He was standing at the foot of the bed wearing a bath towel wrapped around his hips. His hair was wet. Kate lay against the pillows with the tea head brought her, and the biscuit halves of a custard cream that she had peeled away from the filling.

aI did ask for plain biscuitsa.

Barney shook his wet head.

aThey were all I could see. Except for pink wafer things. How long is she staying?a Kate shut her eyes.

aA month?a aA month!a Kate bit a tiny piece out of one of the biscuits. aFour weeks. Onlya.

aFour weeks isnat only,a Barney said. aThatas a fifth of the time weave been marrieda. Kate opened her eyes. aBarn, I couldnat not ask hera.

aWhy?a aBecause sheas my best friend and sheas on her absolute uppersa.

aIam your best frienda. aMy best woman frienda. aSuppose she doesnat get a joba"a aShe will. Sheas got toa.

aAnd supper, us having supper togethera"a aSheall go outa.

You said,a Barney pointed out, athat sheas got no moneya.

Kate shut her eyes again. aPlease, Barna.

He moved round the bed so that he could sit close to her on the edge.

aI just want you to myselfa. aI knowa.

aAnd although I like Rosa, I do, I donat quite like her enough to want to live with hera. Kate sighed.

aI wanted to paint that bedroom,a Barney said. aYellow, with elephantsa. aWhy elephants?a aI loved elephants, when I was littlea. Kate looked at him. aSuppose this baby likes bears?a aIt can have bearsa.

aRosa can draw,a Kate said. aRosa could do bears, by way of renta.

aYou mean you havenat asked her for any rent?a Kate said in a small voice, aJust bills. Sorrya. Barney stood up.

aI canat be cross with you. You look too pathetica. aWhat a reliefa"a aBut I might be cross with Miss Rosa Boyd if she doesnat prove herself the model lodgera. aGuesta.

aGuest. Too righta.

Kate gave him the half-smile he said had been the first thing he noticed about her apart from the backs of her knees.

aPromise I wonat ask anyone elsea. aYou bloody will promisea.

He looked down at her in mock exasperation. Then he walked towards the bedroom door. aBarneya"a He turned. Kate smiled again. aThank youa.

Barney smiled back. Neither of his married sisters had produced any children yet, and his parents were treating him as a miracle of potency.

He wagged a finger at Kate.

aStrictly on sufferance,a he said, still smiling.

The readings for Ghosts were held in an upstairs room above a pub on the Canonbury Road. The room was used for all kinds of purposes, including ballet classes, and along one wall ran a barre screwed into a series of huge dim mirrors, which gave an eerie effect of plunging the place under water. At one end, sharing a littered card table, the director and producer of the play a" both, Edie thought, about half her age a" were sitting on grey plastic chairs with tin pub ashtrays on the floor at their feet. There was also a thin girl in black sitting by an upright piano and another man, in a grey ski jacket, reading a newspaper.

Edie had decided that, as she was doing this reading to placate her agent, who had complained that Edie was not, repeat not, in a position to be choosy, she was not going to prepare meticulously. She had read the play once, quite fast, and had determinedly not decided to dress in any particular way, not to think herself, with any depth, into the mind of Mrs Alving.

She had also seen Russell look at her that morning, wondering.

aIam not in the mood,a shead said, pouring coffee. aOh?a aI canat apply myself. I feel too a" too scattereda.

aPity,a Russell said. He was putting on his mackintosh.

aItas a wonderful parta. aThis is a wonderful part,a the director said now. He had a narrow dark face and a goatee beard.

aOh, yesa.

aHave you played Ibsen before?a Edie shook her head. Shead been a non-speaking visitor once, at the spa in When We Dead Awaken, but that didnat seem worth mentioning.

The producer looked at her.

He said, in a voice she regarded as unhelpful, aWhat do you know about Ibsen?a Edie looked back.

aHe was Norwegian. And short. Very shorta.

aI seea.

The director turned to the man reading the newspaper.

aIvor will read Pastor Manders for you. Act One. The scene revealing her husbandas conducta.

aOK,a Edie said. She walked to a chair by one of the huge mirrors and dumped her bag on it, before rummaging in it for her book.

aFrom this copy,a the director said. aIf you woulda.

Edie turned. He was holding out a sheaf of papers.

aWe have slightly annotated the Peter Watts translationa. He glanced at the man with the newspaper. aIvor speaks Norwegiana.

Edie came slowly forward.

aWeall hear you read,a the producer said. aBut, personally, I think Mrs Alving should be tallera.

The man with the newspaper looked up for the first time.

He said, in accented English, aGood facea.

aBut height,a the producer said. aSo important for dignity. This is a woman who has suffereda.

aHow do you know I havenat?a Edie said.

Nobody answered her. She took the sheaf of papers from the directoras hand.

aAre you sure you want me to do this?a He gave her a fleeting smile.

aNow youare herea.

aIs that enough reason?a aMiss Allen, you applied for this castinga"a Edie swallowed.

aSorrya.

The girl by the piano said, aClare was a good heighta. They all turned to look at her.

aYesa.

aAnd shead prepared meticulously. She understood that this was a progression from the heroine of A Dollas House. What might have happened if Nora had stayeda.

Edie waited. She had begun to feel faintly sick, sick in the way you feel when you have told yourself that, as you donat want something, you will make no effort to secure it, and then discover that your indifference is not as deep as you had supposed.

The producer turned back and looked at Edie.

aDid you make that connection, Miss Allen?a aI do nowa"a The man with the newspaper put it down and stood up. He was burly, even allowing for the ski jacket, and had light, blank blue eyes.

He said to Edie, aThis will be the seventh time I have played Pastor Mandersa.

aHeavensa.

aThree times in Oslo, once in Edinburgh, once in Scarborough and once in London alreadya. She gave him a nervous smile. aAre you Norwegian?a aHalfa.

aYour fathera"a aMy mothera. Edie nodded.

aYou have,a Ivor said, aa wonderful line to reada.

aI do?a aThe line, aThere you see the power of a bad conscience.aa aWell,a Edie said, making an effort, aI at least ought to know about thata. The director leaned forward. aWe should start. There are other appointmentsa. Edie looked at the script in her hand. aWhere would you likea"a aI will start,a Ivor said, aI will start with the line: aIt almost makes my head reel.aa Edie looked at him. aNo script?a He smiled. aNo needa.

Edie gave a little laugh.

aHow very disconcertinga"a aNot at all. Quite the reverse. Reassuring for youa.

aOh?a aLike,a Ivor said, smiling, aplaying tennis with someone much better than you area.

Edie swallowed. A rising tide of temper was beginning to eliminate the sensation of sickness.

aOf coursea.

aWe will begina.

aVery wella.

aAnd I will indicate when we will stopa.

Edie glanced at the director. He was looking neither at her nor at his own copy of the script. She cleared her throat.

aSorry,a he said, without moving. aSorry, Ivor. Iall tell you when to stopa. His gaze travelled slowly across the room and came to rest on some object outside the window. The producer was looking at his fingernails.

aFire away,a the director said.

Ruth Munro was, as was her wont, one of the last to leave her office. She felt that, not only did her conscientiousness set a good example, but it also gave her the chance to leave everything in the state she would like to find it in the following morning: desk orderly, as many emails from the US cleared as possible, work-to-do papers assembled in a pile weighted with a large, smooth grey-and-white pebble, picked up on a north Devon beach during the first weekend that she and Matthew Boyd had ever spent away together. Being alone in the room also gave her the chance to slow the pace, to be reflective, to take advantage of that brief nomanas-land of time between the working day and the evening ahead. It also gave her time to stay in touch.

Ruthas closest friend, Laura, had gone to Leeds two years previously, to join a law firm. In those two years, Laura had become engaged to a fellow lawyer and had bought an apartment on Leedsa regenerated waterfront that had two bathrooms, a balcony and a basement laundry on the Swiss model. It was Laura, now owner of a Tiffany engagement diamond and with plans for Vera Wang shoes for her wedding day, who had intimated to Ruth, with the effect that only close friends can have, that if she did not buy a flat of her own soon she would be making a grave mistake.

Ruth had emailed Laura photographs of the loft on Bankside. Laura had been most approving, especially of the glass brick walls and double-height ceilings.

aGo for it!a shead written.

Ruth had waited three days while she adjusted her need to confide against her loyalty to Matthew, and then shead written, aI really want to. But thereas Matta.

aDoesnat he like it?a Another two days elapsed.

aYes,a Ruth wrote reluctantly, aI think he does. But heas worried about the moneya.

Laura was marrying a lawyer who earned more than she did. Ruth sometimes thought it made her a little callous.

aYou mean he canat afford it?a aYesa.

aCan you?a aYes,a Ruth wrote.

aWell?a Ruth looked up from the screen. With no one in the office, she could hear the faint purring hum of the airconditioning system and, beyond the immediate silence of the office, the bigger hum of Liverpool Street outside. If the truth were told, Matthew had not actually said he could not afford to share equally in the loft on Bankside: he had, instead, made it very plain that he would -could? a" not talk about it. He had been very busy in their present flat, fixing all kinds of things that Ruth regarded as the future tenantsa responsibility, but he had eluded any attempt at the kind of conversation Ruth was trying to have. She looked back at the screen.

aThe thing is,a she wrote, athat we have never had an I-have-this and you-have-that conversation. I suppose neither of us wanted to spell out the difference. And the difference hasnat been a factor, really, up to now. Weave managed rather wella. She paused. Laura was bound to challenge that. aDonat ask why we didnat sort it at the beginning. You know what beginnings are like. You donat care who earns what as long as you can be together and, by the time you start caring, itas too late, the patterns of behaviour are in placea. She stopped and then she typed, aI love Matta.

She lifted her hands off the keyboard and put them in her lap. Laura would tell her that everybody loved Matt, that Matt was the kind of thoughtful, decent, straightforward man who it would be perverse not to love. What Laura would also imply, from the current safety of her shiny new engaged situation, was that love might be about more than simply lovableness, it might include more stimulating elements like shared ambition and respect for professional achievement. She might also say a" and she would be right a" that Ruth and Matthew should have worked out this inequity early on in their relationship, that no amount of rapturous hand-holding on Devon beaches should have blinded Ruth to the fact that they had driven there in Ruthas car, Matthew not possessing one, and were staying in the kind of hotel he quite candidly would not have considered.