The door of his own room thundered shut a few seconds later; almost immediately, a blast of rock music rent the air. Lindsay entered, looking ebullient, and secretly pleased with herself. As if on cue, the second she entered, the telephone began to ring. Lindsay picked it up and listened in silence.

“Markov,” she said eventually. “I don’t want to hear this now. I don’t need to hear this. It’s the weekend, okay? Now, piss off, Markov, and leave me alone.” She replaced the receiver, turned to the door, and raised her voice. “Tom,” she shouted, “down a few decibels, please…”

The boom of drums reduced.

“What happened?” She turned to Gini. “A row?”

“Sort of. I’m not sure. Tom was being very good to me. We were talking. Then the conversation took this sudden swerve. Then…”

“Fission?”

“Yes. Oh, Lindsay—I think I failed him in some way.”

“Don’t worry. That’s what adults are there for. I fail Tom around five times a day. Teenagers!” She flashed a smile. “Let’s get going. I’ll call Charlotte, then we’re on our way. I have a million things to tell you…”

Heading west toward Oxford, Lindsay drove at top speed, and without sign of skill. Gini, who had forgotten just how appalling a driver she was, eventually closed her eyes while Lindsay steered and talked. She talked all the way to Oxford; she talked in Oxford, where having missed the turnoff, she lost the way. She talked on the country roads beyond Oxford, and she did not, it seemed to Gini, have a million topics to discuss, despite her claim.

She had one topic, and variations upon it. Her subject was a man Gini had never met, and in whom Gini was not interested. His name was Rowland McGuire—and Lindsay could not stand him. Or so she said.

Chapter 3

CHARLOTTE FLANDERS HAD BEEN making pastry, and her hands were still floury and white. Her youngest son, Daniel, was seated at the table at the far end of the large country kitchen, happily, if messily, engaged with finger paints.

Tubs of slurpy paint in brilliant colors surrounded Danny and herself. He had deposited paint on his hands, face, elbows, and clothes; there was paint on the floor and the table. So far, he had drawn a red tree, a square house, a blue bristly dog, and a fat orange Charlotte with a fuzz of pink hair. The large, untidy, comforting room smelled of yeast; a clock ticked. Charlotte knew that she should feel tranquil, and in this situation usually did; but this afternoon she was anxious and tranquillity remained elusive. She looked down at Danny’s portrait of herself. Why is my hair pink, she wondered, and found she suddenly wanted to cry.

She hugged Danny impulsively and rested her face against his hair. The scent of his hair and skin, a scent peculiar to babies and young children, affected Charlotte deeply. It tugged at her heart. She kissed Danny, then withdrew, because he was wriggling in that maternal embrace, eager to get on with his art.