“Laurie told me. She thought I knew.”

“Oh,” says Sarah. “That.”

“That?”

“I didn’t want to concern you.”

“You didn’t want to concern me? How ill are you?”

“Fairly ill.” Sarah wipes a hand over her forehead. “I have stage four cancer.”

It is hot—hot everywhere, inside and out. “And how long have you known?”

“Since Christmas.”

“Christmas?”

“I refused the chemo.”

“Of course you did. And you didn’t think I might have something to say about that?”

“It’s my body, Lissa. My life.” Her mother looks weary, cornered, and Lissa senses the people behind her—knows they are being observed.

Sarah’s face changes. “Is Daniel here?” she says quietly. “Did you bring Daniel?”

“No,” says Lissa, her voice rising. “No, he’s not. Do you know why? Because he doesn’t exist. Or he does—but he’s Nathan. Hannah’s Nathan. I fucked Hannah’s Nathan and I told you he was someone he wasn’t and now he doesn’t speak to me. And nor does Hannah. Because my life is a mess. Because you never taught me how to love.”

Sarah reels as though she has been hit. Lissa steps in for more, grabbing her mother’s arm. “You’re so selfish,” she says to her mother. “So fucking selfish. You know that? You always have been and you always will.”

Sarah steps away, a small, elegant parry.

“Goodness me,” says Sarah. “And you say I’m selfish? Dear me, Lissa, I know you wish you were more often on stage, but for once, please can you spare me the drama?”

“Hey.” There is a steady hand on her arm. “Hey, love.”

Lissa turns to see Johnny beside her. She sees Sarah surrounded, Laurie between them. “Time to go home, Liss.”

“Come on,” says Johnny, as he beckons her into his arms.

Hannah

IT IS, APPARENTLY, THE WARMEST SPRING IN YEARS. THE CHERRY trees on her walk to the bus stop are in full bloom. The Georgian café on the corner has its tables and chairs on the street.

She gets up with the dawn and crosses the park to the pool. It is fairly quiet at this time of the day. Only the serious swimmers in their lanes. She goes into one of the small changing rooms, puts on her swimsuit. Takes her cap and goggles. The morning air has a chill but the water is warm. She swims, long fifty-meter lengths. She takes pleasure in her strokes. She watches the light ripple and refract on the water. She remembers Orkney, the horizon, the light. As she swims, her thoughts change. They become less jagged. In the water there is no past and no future. By the time she comes out of the pool, her body is tingling and her mind is clean.