‘You won’t find it changed much,’ she said, ‘as you know, my parents aren’t really into interior decoration. They’re too busy moving the furniture around in people’s psyches.’

‘God, I could do with some of that,’ said Lucy, switching off the intercom in the taxi.

They arrived at the Carrs’ house, where both of Olivia’s parents had consulting rooms, Martin’s in the basement overlooking the garden, and Lizzie’s on the top floor. Olivia left Francis in her bedroom and went downstairs to give Lucy a chance to talk to her alone. He took in the impressive surroundings that his new girlfriend had been brought up in and couldn’t help wondering whether she thought of Willow Cottage as ‘cute’ or ‘cosy’. The solidity of her background, with two parents who were still happily married, was at odds with the disturbing adoption story she had told him over the weekend. It turned out that Olivia’s ultra-Catholic father, Henry, had threatened to kill Karen if she had an abortion. He called it ‘God’s justice’. When it turned out that Karen was pregnant with twins, he had put up no resistance to Olivia’s adoption, but had insisted on keeping her brother, Keith. The photograph that Olivia spotted on the bookshelf was of Karen holding Keith in her arms when he was an infant. Was Olivia’s adoption a crack in the foundations of the upbringing she had received in this substantial house, where he was now sitting on the edge of her bed, or was it almost entirely irrelevant, given that it barely constituted an experience? She had battled against genetic fundamentalism for years and felt that victory might have been secured by the ‘reliably fearful’ mice that she told him about over the weekend. And yet, if their inherited characteristics came neither from the standard model of genetic transmission nor from any contact, Francis wondered if Olivia had liberated herself from one kind of legacy by arguing for a more subtle transmission of intergenerational trauma. She seemed so well; perhaps she would only find out when she had a child of her own.

Early the following morning, they had accompanied Lucy to her appointment with Dr Hammond. Francis had hesitated to come along, but Olivia seemed to want his support as much as Lucy wanted Olivia’s.

‘The name of the patient,’ said the pharmacist suspiciously, seeing the supposedly enviable tranquilliser listed on the prescription.

‘Lucy Russell. She’s with Dr Hammond across the square and I’ve been asked to pick this up for her.’

‘And you are?’

‘A friend,’ said Francis.

‘A friend,’ the pharmacist repeated, as if this were the name of a famous terrorist organisation.

‘Listen, I think she’s just been given some bad news,’ said Francis impatiently, ‘can you please give me the fucking medicine?’ He immediately regretted swearing and realised how disoriented he was by the situation.