Cate begins to shake. She looks up and out at the room, but no one is watching her—the sun slants in through the window. It is still the same morning that it was.

She opens the email.

Hesther is sorry to have taken so long to reply; she has been away—traveling for work. It is lovely to hear from Cate after so long. Cate’s eyes travel hungrily over the words, down to the bottom two lines.

I haven’t seen Lucy for years, but funnily enough I bumped into her when I was in Seattle for work last year. She seemed really well. Seems she changed her name. I have her contact if you’d like it.

And below, an email address. A name.

She types it immediately into her search engine. And she is there before her. Dr. Lucy Sloan. Dept of International Development. University of Oregon.

Her face. The way her lip curls up when she smiles.

A relic from a different life.

Lissa

YOU MUST BRING DANIEL, SARAH SAYS TO LISSA ON THE PHONE and, in the subject heading of the email that contained the exhibition invitation, she put in bold letters—Bring Daniel! Excited to meet him.

In the end, in desperation, Lissa texts Johnny: Got a plus one to an art opening. Don’t suppose you’d like to come?

I’d be delighted, he replies, almost at once.

They meet at the tube. He is dressed as always in black with his black leather bag, but his shirt looks new, and he is wearing a smart jacket. He is freshly shaven and looks well. She is surprised by how happy she is to see him, to have him lift her hand in that courtly, gentle way he has. “Hiya, sweetheart,” he says. She has forgotten the soft Scouse rumble of his voice.

“You look good,” she says. “Very natty.”

“I’m working. Got a bit on Doctors.”

“Ah ha.”

“And,” he says, half apologetically, “I seem to have scored a season at the Royal Shakespeare Company.”

“Whaaat? That’s great!”

“Don’t get too excited.” He holds up a hand. “It’s small parts mostly, but then Enobarbus in Antony and Cleopatra. It’s set in Liverpool in the sixties. Don’t ask. They’ll probably mangle the fuck out of it, but hey.”

“But Johnny, that’s proper!” She finds she is unconditionally happy on his behalf.

“You’d be a good Cleopatra.”

“In another life.”

“What about you? Any meetings?”

“Not really. Actually,” she says, “I’m thinking of giving up.”

“Hush, child,” he says.

“No, really.”

“Come, come,” he says, taking her by the arm. “Less of that.”

“When do you start?”

“May,” he says. “Apparently they’re all very civilized, the Stratford group. Voice classes together every morning—that sort of thing. A year’s worth of the mortgage too.”

“Well,” says Lissa. “You deserve it.”

“So whose exhibition is this then?” he says.