They love their children, and they love each other still. How do they do it? Did they learn it, over time? The slow accretion of habit, of days built from these small, simple acts?

ON SUNDAY MORNING her parents get ready for church. Hannah watches her mother put on her winter coat, then tut-tut and fuss at her dad’s thin parka, trying to get him to wear an extra sweater, cajoling him into his scarf.

“Would you like to come?”

“No, I’ll go for a walk. Get some things from the shop. Maybe I’ll make some lunch.”

She walks out along the cul-de-sac: pebble dash and tiny windows and Union Jacks. It always used to amaze her, how quickly the houses changed, how on the other side of Fog Lane Park you were in Didsbury, where the streets had trees and the houses were huge. Not these little 1930s semi-detacheds, huddled together as though apologizing for themselves.

She does a couple of laps around the local park, then goes to the co-op and buys a chicken and some vegetables. Her parents are back by twelve, and she sees their faces light up at the smell of roasting meat.

Later, when lunch is over, and she and her mum are washing up, Hannah turns to her mother. “How do you pray, Mum?” she asks.

“What do you mean?” her mother says.

“I mean in church, when you pray. How do you do it?”

Her mother takes off her gloves and places them on the side of the counter. She rinses the bowl, placing it back in the cupboard under the sink, then turns to Hannah.

“I’m not sure, really,” she says. “I close my eyes. I listen. I sort of . . . get myself together, I suppose. And then, if I’m praying for someone in particular, I bring them to my mind. If it’s for you, I think of you. Sometimes you’re like you are now, sometimes you’re a little girl.” Her mother’s hand takes hers. “And then I ask. I pray.”

“Do you pray for a baby?”

“Yes, love. I did.”

“You did?” she says. “And now?”

Her mother steps forward, takes Hannah’s cheeks in her palms. “Now, I pray for your happiness, love. For you to be happy. That’s all. Oh, Hannah,” her mother says, as Hannah begins to cry. “Oh, my lovely girl.”

London

1997

IT IS AUGUST 1997, THE SUMMER OF GRADUATION, WHEN HANNAH arrives in the city.

Tony Blair has been Prime Minister for three months. For eighteen years of Hannah’s life there has been a Tory government. They watched the election together, she and Lissa, just before their exams, in an Irish club in Chorlton. They drank Black Velvets until they were dizzy. Even her father voted for Tony Blair.

The invitation from Lissa was issued casually, on a postcard from Rome showing the Trevi Fountain.