'Did you tell him?' she asked, when Margaret had come back to her.

'Of course not. It's your news to tell.' She sat then, beside her, with her back against the headboard and one hand on Susan's shoulder, while they waited for Roger. Susan wasn't ready to speak and, for once, Margaret understood something, and kept quiet too.

When Roger got there Susan still hadn't formed the news into things she could say aloud, so Margaret handed him the letter. 'Oh, my darling,' he said, when he had finished. And then she cried. He pulled her up and into his arms, and rocked her like a baby, saying several times, 'Oh, my darling. Oh, my darling.' Maggie didn't want to be there with them.

'I'll wait downstairs, go and start sorting through the china,' Margaret said.

Susan didn't acknowledge her, but Roger nodded and smiled at her over his wife's shoulder. When she had calmed herself, Susan tried to explain her tears. She was frantic, that they be properly understood. They weren't for Dorothy, the mother she had never known. 'I'm not angry with Mum. I hate that she would have died thinking I was going to be angry with her. How could you be angry at that? What she did was extraordinary she took in someone else's child and loved it, loved me, so much, like I was her own. I couldn't do that. I'm angry that I never knew Dorothy. I've got so many questions they're leaping around in my head and they're never going to be answered now, and what kills me is that Mum,' her voice caught, 'didn't trust me enough to tell me.'

'What do you mean "trust"?'

'I loved my mum more than anything, Rog, more than everyone I knew loved their mum, more than Maggie did, more than Alex and Ed love me. I adored her. She can't have known. In all those years I was growing up, she can't have known how much I loved her. What more could I have done to show her?'

'I don't understand why you think that?'

Susan was exasperated. 'Because because if she'd known, she would have known it was okay to tell me. That it wouldn't make any difference. That, if it's possible, it would have made me think even more of her. And that makes me mad and sad. We could have talked about it. I could have asked all those questions and got answers, and now I'll be asking them for ever and they'll never be answered.'

'I know, I know.' Roger was stroking her back as she spoke. 'It's unbelievable.' He was almost talking to himself. 'It's so far-fetched. I never would have thought they had it in them, Alice and Jonathan. To do all that for you. I always thought you were your mum's favourite. Well, everyone did, you were you were so alike, you two, that's the funny thing. You'd think Maggie was the adopted one.'

'Poor Maggie.'

'Why poor Maggie?' Susan had gone off on another tangent, and Roger was confused again.

'Because she knew it too, that I was Mum's favourite. But don't you see? It makes sense now.' Not to Roger, who was baffled.

'Yes, we were more alike, had more in common, but even that's got to be because Mum tried harder with me. She was overcompensating, trying to love me for Dorothy, and probably Dad too. She thought she didn't have to worry so much about Maggie she was with her real parents, wasn't she?' She cried again now, softly this time, tears of frustration. It felt like she was unravelling a great tangle that was her childhood, but that when she separated all the threads and tried to follow them back to their beginnings, it wouldn't be there, because it was Alice and she was gone. It was like losing her all over again. 'Where is Maggie?'

'She's still downstairs, I think.'

Susan stood up and wiped her eyes on her sleeves. When Roger made to stand up too, she motioned at him to stay there. 'Can you just give me a minute?' He nodded, and blew her a kiss.

Margaret was downstairs in the living room, sitting before the sixties veneer sideboard with brown plastic handles where Alice had kept her mismatched dinner services. She was trying to put sets together, but she hadn't got far. She looked up when Susan came in, her face full of concern. She had been crying too, Susan could see.

'Are you okay?'

'Sort of. You?'

'More or less. Bit shocked, really.'

'Yeah. How did she ever manage to keep it so secret, all those years?'

'Why did she want to, I'd like to know?'

'I think she must have been trying to protect me.'

'I suppose.' Margaret's face seemed about to crumple. 'Certainly wasn't trying to protect me, was she?'

'Oh, Mags, please don't hate her for it.'

'Hate her? I don't hate her.' Margaret was shaking her head. 'I loved her too, you know, maybe not the way you did, Suze, but I loved her. I just never stopped being eaten up with jealousy, feeling hard done by because you two were so b.l.o.o.d.y close. And all the time she was my mum, not yours. We had something between us you could never have had. And I threw it back at her. Made both of them miserable I know I did. And then I b.u.g.g.e.red off, had the world's biggest sulk for twenty years, stuffed up my own life and came back after it was too late. It's me I hate, not her. And now it's too late.' Margaret jabbed at a pile of cups she had arranged on the side table. They fell to the floor and smashed. She put her head into her hands and cried. Susan fell to her knees beside her, and that was where Roger found them when he came down ten minutes later.

Polly Jack hadn't told her he was coming, and Polly wasn't ready to see him. She hadn't got any makeup on, and she was wearing baggy clothes that she suddenly realised were neither clean nor fragrant. She hadn't been expecting anyone today. She and Spencer had been planning a lovely lazy day. At least, she had. Spencer, apparently, had had other plans. He'd been sick down two Babygros since lunchtime, carrot puree, no less. He was still wearing the second when the doorbell rang, and Polly answered the door holding him sick side out, his back to her front and his legs dangling.

She hadn't seen Jack for a couple of weeks, and her body responded to the sight of him as it always had. He looked great. He had new gla.s.ses, wire frames instead of plastic. Her manic inner self screeched with jealousy that someone else must have helped him choose them. Her instinct was to rage at him. She had asked him to stay away, to give her a chance to recover from loving him. Yet here he was again, presumably to muck her about. She didn't want him to come in. Cressida was away, Daniel was at football practice. He wasn't supposed to be here.

He spoke first. 'h.e.l.lo, Poll.' Don't call me Poll. I'm not your Poll any more.

He spoke quickly, having recognised the hostility across her brow. 'I know you asked me to leave you alone. I haven't come to upset you.' He raised his palms in a gesture of surrender. 'I've just come to say that I can't do it. Believe me, I've tried to stay in my orderly, neat life, alone. And I can't do it.' He put one hand down, across his heart, in a theatrical gesture. 'Good lady, I am undone.'

Now she was p.i.s.sed off. What the h.e.l.l did he mean, coming round here in the middle of the afternoon, going all Shakespearian on her? 'You can't come in,' she said, aware that her voice sounded unnaturally high. 'I don't know what you're here for, Jack. A bit of afternoon delight, maybe? Well, it won't work. It's not fair.'

He dropped the gesture, stood straight, with his hands by his sides. 'You misunderstand me, Polly. Let me be clearer. Please, can I come in?'

She stood back against the open door and let him go past her into the hall. He pa.s.sed so close to her and Spencer that she could smell him, which unnerved her even more. He went into the living room. Spencer was gurgling happily under Polly's arm, but she put him in his bouncy chair, secured the buckle of the harness and lowered the row of five brightly coloured plastic animals so that he could play with them. He busied himself trying to focus.

Although she could scarcely believe it, she heard her voice offering him a drink. It was intoxicating, him being here. 'Tea, coffee, juice.'

He shook his head, impatient to get his message out. 'I don't want a b.l.o.o.d.y drink, Polly. I want you. I want us to be together.' Polly sat down. 'I miss you too much. I've been an idiot. I was given a second chance when I found you, and I've nearly blown it by being selfish and inflexible. And I'm sorry.'

It was so tempting to run at him, with her arms open, let him hold her. She'd been so strong for so long. And that was why she couldn't. She willed herself to stand still.

Spencer was starting to complain.

'It's not that simple, Jack. You know it isn't. We've been talking this around in circles. Spencer is here, and he's going to be here for years. And even when Cressida's on her feet, and he lives with her, they're always going to be the greatest part of my life. They're my children. And you don't want to share me with them. I thought you did, before all this with Cressida, but you don't. You proved that when you backed away, and that means it can't work.'

She thought about what Susan had said. It had been a lot to ask. Maybe too much. But she had asked, and been denied. How could they go forward from that?

Outside in the hall, the phone rang. Polly looked at her watch. It was almost certainly Cressida she often rang at this time. Spencer was fractious now. He was due for his sleep. 'I'd better get that.'

'Sure.'

She went out into the hall, pulling the door behind her. Cressida didn't like to hear Spencer cry when she rang. She said it made her b.o.o.bs hurt.

Jack bent down to Spencer. 'You against me, little fella, that's what it comes down to, isn't it? I'm not much compet.i.tion.' His voice was wry, amused, almost, but soft and deep.

Spencer, who had been turning his head from side to side in protest at his abandonment, went quiet and still, and gazed, wide eyed, at him. His mouth worked in tiny 'o's, as if he were trying to blow smoke-rings.

Jack reached out a finger and gingerly stroked his cheek. He could hear Polly's voice through the door. He knew she was talking to Cressida she had a special tone of voice for her children. He supposed he was jealous of that, too. What an idiot. Surprised at himself, he undid the harness and picked Spencer up, one hand spread wide under each arm. He wanted to know what he felt like. He couldn't remember holding a baby so small before. Spencer was warm, and he could feel breath and ribs. He laid the soft cheek he had just stroked against his own, careful not to scratch him with his beard, not so much a six-o'clock as a one-hour-since-I-shaved shadow. Polly had liked it, his beard, scratching her when they kissed until her cheeks were red. Spencer's hand came up to Jack's face, one finger in his nostril, the other pulling his bottom lip down. He'd never experienced the rush of responsibility he felt now, an appreciation of vulnerability and dependence. And he was curious. It wasn't love, that would be ridiculous, but it was something instinctive, quite beyond his control. Spencer was hurting him now; one quite sharp nail was poking the inside of his nose, and he held the baby at both arms' length, looked at him. Spencer's legs came up to his chest, and his head lolled. Without thinking, Jack pushed his hands, thumbs still firmly in the baby's armpits, up to cradle his neck. When he was stilled and steady, Spencer resumed his ravenous stare.

Jack picked up his conversation: 'Hey, big guy, you trying to draw blood now, are you?'

When the smile, uncontrolled but ready, spread across Spencer's face, Jack felt as if he'd won first prize. He wanted to make him smile again.

That was how Polly found them. Years afterwards she would say that she couldn't believe how quickly Spencer had cast a spell over Jack. It didn't seem possible, this Damascus conversion. She'd been gone three, maybe four minutes, and the baby had the middle-aged man in his thrall, where he stayed, insensible and babbling, she would joke, for years. And Jack would laugh too, his big chocolate laugh, and put his arm round her and say that was nonsense. That he knew perfectly well nothing melted a woman's heart like a man with a child in his arms. That it had been a cold calculated move to get her back, and that he couldn't stand the little b.u.g.g.e.r. Which no one who watched them playing cricket in the garden, Jack patiently bowling slow underarms at him, or coming down the big green waterslide at the leisure pool, Spencer apoplectic with excitement between Jack's thick thighs, or testing each other on capital cities, football teams or makes of car believed for a minute.

November.

Reading Group.

The Alchemist.

PAULO COELHO 1988.

This is the story of Santiago, an Andalusian shepherd boy, who dreams of travelling the world in search of a treasure as extravagant as any ever found. From his home in Spain he journeys to the exotic markets of Tangiers and then into the Egyptian desert, where a fateful encounter with the alchemist awaits him. The Alchemist is a transforming novel about the essential wisdom of listening to our hearts, learning to read the omens strewn along life's path and, above all, following our dreams.

'Okay, I seem to remember from way back that we have a rule about non-fiction.'

'Hear, hear.'

'And the book we chose to relax it for was this one?'

'I want a word with the twenty million people whose lives have been changed by reading this book, according to the blurb on the back.'

'Me, too. Right, Susan. You chose it. Tell us why...'

Susan grimaced. 'Because I believed the blurb on the back?' It was a question. 'Nice cover, not too long, author looks a bit like Roger in the photo?'

'Not good enough. If our numbers weren't already down without Clare, I'd think we should drum you out of the group.'

'Sorry.'

'Hang on. Don't say sorry to Harriet. She's not the boss of us.' Nicole was laughing too. 'You don't have to apologise for your choices in this group. That, as discussed ad nauseam, is the whole point of reading groups. They make you read things you never would otherwise. Don't they, Harriet?'

Harriet's face conceded.

'Besides,' Nicole went on, 'I did find it extraordinary. It was definitely more of an experience than a read.'

'You are kidding?' This was Polly, looking at her copy with incredulity.

'I'm deadly serious. I think you can pick things out of this book that really make you think.'

'Oh, yeah, absolutely...' Harriet's sarcasm was heavy. 'Here's one, just off the top of my head.' She was flicking through the pages, dozens of which had their corners turned down. When Harriet didn't like something, she bombarded the others with her reasons. 'Yeah, here.' She a.s.sumed a heavily accented, deep voice: ' "Everything that happens once can never happen again. But everything that happens twice will surely happen a third time." That's genius, that is.'

'Okay, I agree, it's a bit hard to get the message out.'

Susan interrupted: 'I liked the way it was written. It was like a parable, wasn't it? You could imagine it being delivered orally, centuries ago. Simple.'

'Simple is right.'

'What really made you think, then, Nic?'

'Okay.' Nicole tried to gather her thoughts into a cohesive view that she could express quickly before the others interrupted. She clearly didn't have many allies on this one, except maybe Susan.

'I thought it had smart things to say about self-determination, and self-knowledge, which are close to my heart just now. All it is is a spiritual journey that Santiago goes on, isn't it, of self-discovery? It's about listening to your heart. There's that bit where he says, "Why should I listen to my heart?" and the answer given is "because you will never again be able to keep it quiet. Even if you pretend not to have heard what it tells you, it will always be there inside you, repeating to you what you're thinking about life and about the world." '

'Fair enough he's making some good points. Obvious ones, but fair enough. Don't you think, though, that it takes an amazingly long and complicated time to say those two or three simple bits of wisdom?'

'Yeah. I must say I did lose patience with all the fantastical stuff the alchemist himself, all those b.l.o.o.d.y "omens" he kept finding...'

'Those stupid stones he kept asking questions...'

'And the business about turning yourself into the wind to avoid being murdered.'

'I've heard the same points made more succinctly by Hallmark. Listen to your heart. Love conquers all. Sometimes what you most want is right under your nose, and you just haven't noticed it yet.'

'Maybe you're just not receptive to it right now. I think I was. When they say it's a life-changing book, maybe that means if you're in a place that needs changing.'

'We've all been there, one way or another, this year, haven't we?'

The women fell silent, each thinking about the corners their lives had turned. Harriet thought about losing one Tim and finding the one she had been looking for all along. Nicole thought about rediscovering herself. Polly thought about giving up Jack because she had listened to her heart over Cressida and Spencer, and how his had sent him back to her. Maybe the book had something to tell each of them.

Their silence answered the question. Harriet broke the spell. 'Maybe. I could still have done without the mumbo-jumbo.'

'That's the ancient art of storytelling, though, isn't it? Dressing things up in the fantastical to captivate your audience. Look at the Bible, same thing. This book is like a mini Bible: it's a list of rules for life dressed up in a bit of a fable, that's all.'

'I liked the bit where he says that the world's greatest lie is that at a certain point in our lives we lose control of what's happening to us and become controlled by fate. I think he's right I don't believe in fate either.'

'I do. I blame all my big c.o.c.k-ups on it.' Harriet laughed. 'Actually, the most interesting thing I think about fate is something I remember from university. Some author I think it was George Eliot or someone said your life was like a ship and that you couldn't change its course but you could move around on it while it went wherever it was going. I always liked that theory. Some things are beyond your control. It's what you do about them that can make a difference.'

'Only he seems a bit confused. On the one hand he's telling you that there is no fate, because it's all up to you, then on the other he keeps going on about omens, and signs that lead you surely that's fate?'

'Is fate the same as destiny, then?'

'I think so.' Nicole hadn't been able to change Gavin. She'd tried for years. In the end, she'd only been able to change what she did about him.

'I love something he says about timing. He says he's "interested only in the present... You'll see that there is life in the desert, that there are stars in the heavens... Life will be a party for you, a grand festival, because life is the moment we're living right now."'

'Hardly original, though, is it? Live for today?'

'Other people can change your destiny, too, can't they?' Susan said. 'My mum changed mine.'

'What do you mean, Suze?'

'She's not my mum. She adopted me.' She hadn't even told Polly. It was still so new. The statement landed like a meteor in the room.

Nicole was confused. 'You never told us.'

'I never knew. She didn't tell me. I don't think she told anyone, except my dad. Maggie and I found a letter last week when we were going through her things. A letter she'd only wanted us to read after she was dead.'