I shake my head.

She raises the gla.s.s to her lips but doesn't drink from it, then slowly, purposefully, she sets it down. It seems like such an effort, such a trial, that I feel like I ought to reward her.

'But you're right,' I say, 'there is something else. Those antidepressants that Daniel had in the bathroom. Kay says he never took them, but he did.'

'You know know this?' this?'

'Yes...I opened them. It was an accident really...but all of the tablets were gone.'

She sits down and rubs her hand over her face.

'When was it?'

'When what?'

'Think, Claire. When did he start taking them?'

She's making me nervous; I can't think straight.

'I don't remember...no, wait, it was February. It was back while I was breaking up with Michael.'

She looks crestfallen. At what exactly? Is she worried at the effect this medication has had on Daniel? Is she displaying some long overdue sympathy for my broken marriage?

'Look,' I say, 'I don't want you to worry...we're just catching up. For old times. There's nothing going on between the two of us.'

She snorts. Her fingers go to her gla.s.s, but she pulls them back.

'What difference does it make?' she snaps, crossly. 'Michael, Gabriel, some other low-life that you've plucked off the street. How many has it been now? In the last year? In the last six months? None of them do you any good.'

I don't even have time to take this in. She's motoring, she's already moved on.

'I want you to go and see Tom tomorrow.'

'Daniel's partner? Why?'

'See what he knows. Ask him about the restaurant. See if they went there together. He'll know if Daniel was...if he was seeing someone else.'

'I don't know, Mum...I'm not sure.'

She leans in to me and reaches for my arm.

'Do this for me, please, Claire, it's important. I think you're the best one to do it.'

This trust, this kindness, this sudden softness in her voice, it leaves me a little disorientated. I wonder if I'm not imagining it, if she's not fooling or tricking me in some way.

'Of course, I'd ask Sylvie to go, but she's busy. Sylvie would have been my first choice.'

Cinderella

Outside in the cold, in the remnants of last week's snow, the city is singing off key. Drunks skid along the road on thin layers of ice and piles of cinnamon slush obstruct the pavements. People squeeze, bristle and churn through the streets, all in a hurry to get somewhere. The end of an old year, the beginning of the new, some still seem to think it worth celebrating.

'Don't you have to be somewhere by midnight?'

'I did...yeah,' says Michael, glancing at his watch. 'But it's probably too late to get there now.'

'Sorry. I didn't mean to spoil your evening.'

'It's fine, really. Don't worry about it.'

'Thanks for coming with me. It helped.'

'You think so?'

I shrug, I'm not sure it did.

'She hates me, doesn't she? I could tell?'

'Mum? Yeah...a little bit.'

'And you? Do you still hate me, Claire? Is that how it is?'

He's so transparent, so easy to read; Michael can't stand to feel rejected by anyone. He's seeking absolution, some rea.s.surance, like a kid waking up from a nasty dream. I can tell, right now, that he wants to sleep with me. The idea's just popped into his head. He's blown out his date, he's ruined his night and he's wondering how far he can push it. He's testing himself, daring himself; wondering if I'll be fool enough to bite. But that's the comforting thing about Michael: everything about him is on the surface.

'No, Michael, I don't. I don't hate you.'

'Well, good. Good. That's good to know.'

We walk off in the direction of his car; Michael quiet and wondering how to play it.

'So,' he says, fiddling with his car keys. 'Do you want to come back to my flat?'

Do I? I'm not sure. I just know that I don't want to go home alone.

Sometimes it's not about love. Sometimes, not even desire. In difficult circ.u.mstances, in moments such as these, the fact that someone knows you well can be enough. It's comfortable with us. It's easy with us. We still know where everything fits. If it wasn't new year's eve, if Gabe wasn't s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g Sylvie, if my family didn't make me feel as lonely as a stranger sometimes, then maybe, well, who knows? But sometimes I just want someone to be nice to me: to hold me right, to touch my skin a certain way, and to not have to say too much of anything.

'You want me to stay over with you, don't you?' I say.

'Yeah, Shorty,' Michael says. 'Of course I do.'

And when he leans in to kiss me, it's not special, it's not exciting, but it's enough.

It's good waking up in someone else's flat. It's nice having them make you coffee and stale toast. It's nice not having to ask them what they do for a living or to have to admit that you don't remember their last (or first) name. I like it that I know this man's habits. I like it that I know how he ticks. This man still has two sugars in his coffee. He still waits for his toast to go cold before he b.u.t.ters it. And he just rubbed my neck as he walked past me: he always used to rub my neck.

'So, what does this mean?' he says, sitting down with his food. 'Does it mean we're back together? Is it important? Do we even have have to define it?' to define it?'

Rhetorical questions, every one.

'I had a great time last night, don't get me wrong. But I think we should just see where it goes. No pressure, no expectation. That's what killed it the first time round.'

Right. That's That's what killed it. The pressure. what killed it. The pressure.

'And I don't know how you feel...but I was wondering. If you'd like like to, if you think it's OK. Maybe we should go on a couple of dates.' to, if you think it's OK. Maybe we should go on a couple of dates.'

Translation: he'd like to have s.e.x with me from time to time.

'Because you're vulnerable at the moment, and I don't know where I'm at...and I'd hate for you, you know, to expect expect too much.' too much.'

He narrows his eyes as he says this, he actually sticks out his lip. But I don't expect anything. I know what this is. I smile and let him off the hook.

'Cool...cool,' he says. 'That's great.'

He leans in and squeezes my arm: pleased with himself, content with himself, relieved that he has it all worked out. There's no emotional complexity with Michael; it's only ever about how he feels at a given moment.

'I'll come over to Tom's house with you later, if you like. Would you like me to come over there with you?'

Of course he'll come, I remember this of old. s.e.x makes Michael briefly doting.

'And here, while you're eating, you might like to take a look at this.'

'What is it?'

'That Sunday Times Sunday Times review I was telling you about. I'll fix you another coffee while you read it.' review I was telling you about. I'll fix you another coffee while you read it.'

My brother's partner opens the door to us dressed in a pair of silk pyjamas; a little bit dozy and bleary eyed. He clearly had a time of it last night. He looks tired, sluggish, guilty.

'Claire...happy new...I mean, come in.'

'It's OK. You can still wish me a happy new year.'

'Sure, sure. I'm sorry.'

'You remember Michael, don't you?'

'Michael, yes...uh, of course.'

Tom welcomes us into his home. His place is a lot like my brother's: plush, expensive, well kept, but a little more arty and relaxed. There's modern art on the walls instead of landscapes and gloomy oils, and everything is brighter and warmer. The kitchen is in a bit of a state: empty champagne bottles strewn across the marble countertops and ashtrays stuffed full of cigar b.u.t.ts and ash.

'Bit of a party last night,' Tom says, apologetically. 'Not a big one, just a couple of close friends.'

'Really, it's fine. Why shouldn't you celebrate?'

'Well...I don't know. With everything that's going on.'

'Yes,' says, Michael, earnestly. 'It's a tough time for us right now. Not much celebrating for us us.'

'No,' says Tom, lifting his eyebrows. 'I expect not.'

Michael helps himself to a left-over prawn canape while Tom and I get down to business.

'So, why the early visit? Is there news?'

'No. No. Nothing really.'

Michael coughs. I'm not sure if this means he's got a flake of filo pastry stuck in his throat or if this is his attempt to urge me on.

'Tom,' I say, quietly, 'this is difficult. I know you've spoken to the police already...and that Chloe had a long talk with Kay, but was there something, anything...that you didn't mention?'

'Like what?'

'Well, did Daniel seem OK to you before this happened? Did he seem distracted, unhappy, depressed?'

'He was busy...he was working very hard.'

'Did my brother ever talk to you about his marriage? Did he ever mention that he and Kay might be having problems?'

'Not really, but he wasn't the type. You know Daniel, he's very private.'

'What about a woman named Annie?' says Michael, piping up. 'Do you know anybody called Annie?'

'Michael?'

'Well, what's the point in being coy? We have to ask.'

Tom shakes his head.

'No...I don't think so. Is she important, was something going on?'

'We don't know. We don't know who this woman is. But it seems like Daniel had been having an affair.'

'Claire, I thought I recognised your voice. How are you, is there any news?'

Chloe, Tom's wife, has come into the kitchen; she looks like she's just got out of bed. Her hair is messed up and there are creases in her cheeks, but she still looks effortless and pretty. She paints the murals that decorate this townhouse: splashes of pigment and startling colour, that sing out from the monochrome walls.

'They think Daniel was having an affair,' says Tom, crisply. 'They want to know if we knew anything about it?'

'Claire, is that true?'

I nod.

Chloe reaches for the coffee pot. She must have one h.e.l.l of a hangover because the jug seems unsteady in her hand.