It wasnat, Ruth reflected, that he didnat pay his way because he did, with sometimes almost painful eagerness, but she couldnat help noticing that a tension about money had grown in him in the last year and, while she was genuinely sympathetic to that, she also felt that his concerns couldnat take precedence over her ambitions, that what held him back shouldnat hold her back too. If you made too many personal sacrifices, she and Laura had often agreed during late-night talking sessions with bottles of wine and Diana Krall on the stereo, you only ended up resenting the person youad made the sacrifices for. Those old words, like adutya and ahonoura, belonged to the history books, to an ancient imperial vocabulary that didnat belong in anyoneas hearts or minds any more. You couldnat, as a woman, make yourself into someone lesser in order to accommodate a manas weaknesses. You couldnat agree not to want, not to strive for, a very desirable flat on Bankside because the man you were sharing your life with quite simply couldnat afford to match your input. She picked up a ballpoint pen.

aDoes that mean,a she wrote across her jotting pad, athat I donat love him enough?a She tore the page off the pad and screwed it into a ball.

aOr,a she wrote, aare my values so skewed that at this moment I almost want a flat more than a man? And why do I want this particular flat so much? What is it about this one?a She looked across her desk. There was a photograph of Matthew there, in a black bamboo frame, taken on holiday in the Maldives, a holiday he had suggested and had then a" she could see it a" had anxieties about paying for. He looked quite without anxiety in the photograph. He was wearing a white T-shirt and a wide smile and his hair was ruffled against a sky as blue as delphiniums.

Ruth ripped the second sheet off the jotting pad and tore it across. She glanced at her email to Laura. What possibilities it opened up for Laura to implore her a" or instruct her a" not to let herself down. She ran the cursor up the screen to cancel the message.

aDo you,a her computer asked politely, awish to save the changes to this message?a aNo,a Ruth clicked. She looked at Matthew, laughing on his tropical beach. aSorry,a she said.

She could see, from the pavement below their building, that Matthew was home before her. She could also see, from the way the light fell, which lamps he had switched on and, from that, what sort of ambience there would be when she reached the second floor and even what kind of atmosphere. Sometimes, she wished she didnat notice so much. Sometimes, she thought how peaceful it would be to be someone who didnat observe so minutely and deduce so analytically. It meant, as Matthew had sometimes affectionately pointed out, that she lived her life twice, exhaustingly, once in preview, once in actuality.

aWhat will you do,a head said, holding her, his face against hers, awith the three spare days at the end of your life that youave lived already?a She put her key into the main door. The communal hallway, solidly decorated in the style of a decade earlier, contained only a small reproduction side table on which all the mail for the building was piled. Matthew would already have sifted through the pile for their own mail, but something in Ruth needed to recheck it, every time she came in. Her father had been the same, she told herself consolingly, perpetually reassuring himself that everything was in order, even down to counting the change from his trouser pockets every evening before piling the coins, in precise order of size, on the chest of drawers in her parentsa bedroom. No wonder, she thought now, forcing herself past the side table without pausing, that shead chosen someone like Matthew, someone whoad come from a family who regarded orderliness as a sadly psychotic condition. Two people like her in one relationship would simply have fossilised in their own methodicalness.

She ran up the two flights of stairs to their landing. The front door was slightly open and there was the sound of music, some of the dance-rock stuff Matthew liked.

She pushed the door wider open.

aHi there!a Matthew appeared from the bedroom, feet bare on the wooden floor, but still in the shirt and trousers of his business suit. He bent to kiss her.

aI like it,a she said, awhen youare back firsta.

He straightened.

He said, aI havenat done anything, though, except take my jacket offa"a aI didnat meana"a aI know,a he said.

She went past him into the sitting room. aAny mail?a aOnly dull thingsa.

She picked up the envelopes and glanced back at him. aGood day?a aSo-soa.

She put the envelopes down.

She said, aI thought Iad go to the gyma"a Matthew leaned against the sitting-room door frame.

aI thought you mighta.

aWant to come?a Matthew shifted his shoulder.

aNo thanksa.

aThen Ia"a aRuth,a Matthew said.

She looked down at the envelopes. Notifications of payment by direct debit every one, evidence of system and organisation, evidence of knowing that vital energies should not be dissipated in muddle and inefficiency, evidencea"

aRuth,a Matthew said again.

She looked at him.

aSit downa.

aWhat are you going to saya"a aSit down,a Matthew said. aPleasea.

Ruth moved to the leather sofa a" joint purchase, half-price in a January sale, excellent value a" and sat down, her knees together, her back straight, as if in a business meeting.

Matthew padded past her and sat down at her side. He took her nearest hand.

aLook,a he said, athis isnat very easy to saya"a aDoes it have to be now?a aYes. There isnat a right time or, if there is, it mightnat occur for weeks and I have to say this thing, I have to tell youa.

She gripped his hand.

aWhat?a He said, looking at the floor, aIam really sorrya.

aMatta"a aI wish it wasnat like this. I wish I could match you in everything. Youare quite right to want to buy the flat. Youare quite right to want to climb the property ladder and Iam sure youare right about not leaving it any later. And itas a great flata. He stopped and gently took his hand away. aItas just,a he said, athat I canat manage it. Iave tried and tried to see how, but I canat afford it. I canat, actually, afford how weare living now and I havenat faced up to that. Until now. Iam having to, now, because Iam having to face the fact that I canat even think about buying the flat on Bankside with youa. He looked up from the floor and gave her a small smile. aSo if you want to go ahead, go ahead without mea.

Chapter Five.

aArenat you going to get up?a Kate said. She was dressed in a velour tracksuit and had pulled her hair back tightly so that she looked about thirteen and far too young to be pregnant.

aNo,a Rosa said.

aItas twenty to elevena"a aYesterday,a Rosa said, aI went to four crappy interviews and was turned down at every one. This afternoon I have three more. This morning I have decided not to punish myself any more than life seems to be doing anywaya.

Kate kicked at a pile of clothes and bags on the floor.

aYou could clear all this up a bita"a Rosa looked.

aYes, I coulda.

aYouad feel better if you didnat keep telling yourself that lifeas got it in for youa.

aShall I,a Rosa said, sitting up in bed and pushing her hair back, atalk to you when youare feeling less priggish?a aYou know,a Kate said, anone of this is very easy for me. I want to help you, I want to make things nice for Barney, I want to stop feeling so awful and start feeling pleased about this baby, but it doesnat help, Rosa, if you lie in bed in all this mess having the mean reds and not even tryinga.

There was a pause. Rosa twisted her hair into a rope and held it against the back of her head. aHow do you know Iam not trying?a Kate kicked at the bags again. aLook at thisa"a aNo cupboards,a Rosa said, ano drawers. Floor last resort. Floor it isa.

aThereas floor and floor. Thereas attempt-at-tidy floor or thereas throw-everything-about-like-a-sulky-teenager floora.

Rosa let her hair go.

aI canat believe weare having this conversation. This is like talking to my mothera.

aNot your mother, surelya"a aNo. Quite right. Not my mother. Your mothera.

aDonat take your spite out on my mothera"a aOh Kate,a Rosa said wearily, pushing back the duvet and swinging her legs slowly out of bed, adonat letas do thisa.

aThen tidy up,a Kate said shrilly. aStop abusing my hospitality and make an efforta.

Rosa stood up. She looked down at Kate.

aWhat would you like me to do?a aI would like you,a Kate said, ato clear up this room. I would like you not to put washing in the machine and then just leave it there. I would like you not to finish the milk or the yoghurt or the bananas and then not replace thema.

aDo you know,a Rosa said, ayou were never like this when we were students. You didnat, as I recall, give a stuff about washing or bananasa.

Kate sighed.

aI was thinking about Rimbaud then. And Balzac. And the practicalities behind the traditions of courtly lovea. aAnd Ed Moffata.

aWell, yesa.

aEd Moffat didnat make you want to count bananasa"a aI didnat marry Ed Moffat,a Kate said. aI wasnat obliged to Ed Moffata.

Rosa stooped for her clothes. aDoes Barney mind about bananas?a aHe minds about me mindinga. Rosa looked at her. aBut why do you mind?a Kate rubbed her eyes.

aBecause being married changes things. It puts you in a different place, somewhere where it just suddenly seems childish to live in a student messa.

aChildisha.

aYes,a Kate said.

Rosa found a pair of blue lace knickers on the floor and stood on one leg to put them on.

aIave had a flat, you know. Iave bought milk and paid bills and taken washing out of machines. Iave done all thata.

aThen whya"a aBecause Iave lost control of things,a Rosa said. She pulled the knickers up under her nightshirt. aItas all kind of got away for the moment, like something big and slippery, just sliding off the edge. Iad love, frankly, to be back in charge of my own fridgea.

There was a small silence. Then Kate shuffled through the bags on the floor and put her arm round Rosa.

aSorrya.

aMe tooa.

aBut you seea"a aYes,a Rosa said, aI see. Of course I seea.

aI canat share my life with you the way I once dida"a aI knowa.

aBut I want to be there for youa"a aPlease,a Rosa said, pulling off her nightshirt. aPlease donat say thata. aWhy not?a aBecause itas such an awful, meaningless phrasea. aBut Rose, Iam your friend, I want toa"a Rosa looked at her. aYou area.

aWhat?a aHelping. Youave given me a roof and a bed and Iam grateful. I am also sorry about the bananasa. She bent and picked up a black bra. aI will sort this rooma.

Kate watched her.

aYouare so lucky,a she said, ato have normal-sized breasts still. Seen mine?a * * *

There had been no word from the director of Ghosts. From past experience, Edie knew that this meant she hadnat got the part, but then, she told herself, shead known that the moment shead walked into the room for her casting and sensed the profound boredom her presence aroused. Just after the casting, she had been buoyed up by a kind of righteous indignation a" how dare they be so rude, so dismissive, so unprofessional? a" and then she had sunk slowly down, as she had done hundreds of times over the years, through disappointment and discouragement, to the kind of weary resignation that made her agentas consoling platitudes sound more clichd every time they were uttered.

aThey are a good outfit, Edie, they do pull off some marvellously fresh interpretations, but everyone complains about the way they behave and I know really distinguished people, if youall forgive the comparison, dear, whoave been simply treated like dirt and it just isnat right or reasonable that they can fill theatres the way they do after treating people like that, but the fact is they do and thatas why I put you up in the first place because it would have been such a step up for you, but there we are. Sorry, dear, sorry. But donat take it personally. Weall get you there, promise. Youare just about right now for one of Shakespeareas mad old queens. Donat you think?a Yes, Edie thought, lying on Benas bed in the middle of a Thursday afternoon, still clasping the clean towels shead been bringing upstairs to the airing cupboard when she had spied his bed through the open door of his room and been irresistibly drawn towards it, yes, mad certainly, and old any minute and why not a queen since being anything more realistic seemed to be, at the moment, out of the question? Why not point out, to the Royal Shakespeare Company, what theyad been missing in Edie Allen all these years and watch them throw crowns at her in an agony of remorseful recompense? Why not continue pretending that the world, as she knew it, hadnat fallen to pieces and left her washed up somewhere alien and empty with no notion of how to proceed? Why not keep saying, as Russell kept saying, that this is a rite of passage that all mothers go through, and do not all go off their heads for ever in the process?

Edie shut her eyes. It would be luxurious, in a way, to be truly off her head, to be so much in another place mentally and emotionally that any requirement to behave conventionally was neither demanded nor expected. The difficulty for her was that she could see how much easier it would be for Russell, for herself even, if she could slide seamlessly from one stage to another, from something almost all-consuming to something still supportive but more detached, but the trouble was that these states of mind and heart did not seem to be a matter of will but more a matter of chance. There were women who could manage to be both kind and somehow still cool; and there were fierce women, women whose feelings tossed them about like corks in a storm. If you were fierce, Edie thought, you couldnat fake cool. Nor could you think where on earth to put, let alone use up, all that energy.

She sat up, hugging the towels. Two towels, two adult-sized bath towels, which had washed over time from sage green to pale grey. Once there would have been five towels, plus swimming towels and a" stop this, Edie said to herself, stop this nonsense, stop indulging yourself. She turned to look out of the window. The sun had come out, a light hard spring sun that only managed to show up just how dirty the glass was.

From downstairs, she heard the telephone ring. It was never plugged in, in her and Russellas bedroom, unless the children were out late, and as they were no longer there to be out late, it remained unplugged. She sat where she was, her chin on the towels, listening to the cadences of Russellas polite, easy answerphone message and then the same cadences saying something quite brief, like head be having a drink with someone after work or head be bringing something back for supper that had caught his fancy. He rang a lot now, little inconsequential messages about this or that, sometimes just to say he was thinking about her. Which was lovely of him, sweet, attentive, thoughtful. And which left her strangely, disconcertingly, guiltily unmoved.

She stood up. Vivien had said, in a rare moment of not needing to score a point, that Edie should just wait, that this was a kind of grief, and that griefs of all kinds were susceptible to time and that, even if time didnat heal them, it made them possible to accommodate to.

aJust wait,a Vivien said, shouting into her mobile against traffic noise. aThatas what Iam doing, just waitinga.

aWhat do I do,a Edie said, awhile Iam waiting?a aBe nice to Russell!a Vivien shouted. aTry that, why donat you?a There was a pause and then Vivien said, aWhy do you have to make such a drama out of it, Edie? People leave home all the time! Theyare supposed to!a Edie moved slowly out of Benas bedroom and across the landing to the airing cupboard. There was a trick to opening the door, a trick involving lifting the handle slightly as one pulled, while pulling slowly in order not to precipitate an avalanche of towels and duvet covers, which had been stacked, for twenty years now, on slatted shelves that were neither level nor deep enough. Holding a bulging pile back with one hand, Edie half threw the clean towels up towards a space near the top of the cupboard, shut the door hastily and leaned against it. Then she peeled herself gingerly away, waited for ten seconds to make sure the catch would hold, and went downstairs to the kitchen. She glanced at the telephone. There was something slightly pressured about being thought about by the wrong person. Sweet though it was, imaginative, loving, kind a" Russellas message could wait.

Russell decided he would go home early. He had been invited, with Edie, to the preview of a remake of a classic Hitchcock film, starring a hot new young Hollywood actor, who thought, as hot new young actors had probably thought since Sophocles, that they had invented bad behaviour as a statement of wild independence. Russell had not mentioned the preview to Edie simply because she had never liked Hitchcock much and because the number of invitations he now received each month was so great that it had bred, even in Russell, brought up to standards of meticulous courtesy in that terraced house in Hull, a correspondingly great casualness in both responding and attending. He dropped the invitation on Maeveas desk.

She gave it the merest glance.

aItas a bit last-minutea"a aNow, thereas gratefula"a aIad be grateful if I needed to be,a Maeve said. aAs well you knowa. She looked up. aWhy arenat you going?a Russell unhooked his jacket from the bamboo hatstand behind the door.

aIam away to my wifea.

Maeve stopped typing but didnat look up.

aIs she OK?a aTo be truthful,a Russell said, anot verya.

aThereas no dress rehearsal for these stages of lifea"a aNoa.

aAnd no way that I can see of knowing how youall conduct yourselfa"a aNoa.

Maeve began typing again.

aHowas Rosa?a aDonat know,a Russell said.

aOnly asking. Pretty girl. Striking, even. And clever. Now, if Rosa was minea"a aGood night, Maeve,a Russell said. He opened the door. aSee you in the morninga.

She gave a tiny smile to her keyboard.

aEnjoy your eveninga.

Descending to the underground, Russell wondered when he had last attempted to travel not in the rush hour. At four in the afternoon, the underground was strangely easy and accessible, and the people using it looked altogether less driven and self-absorbed. He even found a seat, and extracted the books section of the previous weekendas newspaper for a leisurely read about books he would never read himself only to discover that he couldnat somehow concentrate. It wasnat leaving work early that was troubling a" although he couldnat remember when he had last done that a" nor even some residual nagging consciousness that he should be going to the preview because you never knew who else might be in the audience. It was Edie, really. However unresponsive she was being, however unhelpful both to herself and to him, however a" well, exasperating was the word that came to mind a" she was, one way and another, worrying to Russell. It was natural, perhaps, to feel the final departure of your youngest child as keenly as she felt Benas, but was it natural to go on feeling it so keenly, to sink so deeply into the effects of loss that you couldnat see the point of, or colour in, anything else? And, equally, was it fair to have to restrain oneself from telling oneas wife that she was overreacting, on a daily basis, because one feared the inevitable subsequent explosion?

She hadnat, it was perfectly obvious, made any effort for the Ibsen casting. She had only gone in the end because Russell and her agent had almost forced her to, and this in itself was worrying because, in the past, however busy, however preoccupied with family life, Edie had displayed an eagerness about every chance that came her way, a kind of optimistic determination that Russell had marvelled at, admired, especially in the face of so much inevitable rejection. She had even said every so often while yanking clothes out of the dryer or dumping mountains of groceries on the kitchen table, aJust think what itall be like when I can think about lines and not lavatory paper!a And now that time had come, and she seemed utterly indifferent to it, indifferent indeed to almost everything except tending to this furious small flame of longing for Ben a" metaphor for the childrenas childhoods a" to be back again.

Perhaps, Russell thought, it was just a matter of time. Perhaps a" more disconcertingly a" it was a kind of depression. Perhaps a" more disconcertingly still a" Edie had been so changed by all those years of nurture that she couldnat now remember how it was to be just married, how it was to want to be still married. He shook his paper a little. So many books on the bestseller lists, on the review pages, were about love. Well, of course. In all its myriad forms. What else mattered, really? If it wasnat for love, indeed, why was he sitting on an afternoon train going home to someone whose current unhappiness he would gladly have shouldered himself? The train pulled into his station and stopped with a jerk. Russell helped a pregnant black girl get herself and a buggy and a sleepy toddler dressed as Spider-Man off the train and on to the platform.

She looked at him. Her eyes were as dark and round as her Spider-Man childas. aThank you,a she said.

He badly wanted to say something back. He opened his mouth and then realised that what he hopelessly wanted to say was whole paragraphs of confused thinking about parenthood and letting go and not being able to and having to. He closed his mouth again and smiled. She looked at him for a moment longer and then bent and lifted the child into the buggy.