Lydia looked around with faint irritability at her husband dozing and her friend absorbed in drawing: their absences bored her. She was too alertly vigilant, herself, ever to fall asleep during the day. Because Zachary’s consciousness was withdrawn from between them for a moment – he snored, and his mouth fell open – Christine grew to feel something interrogative in how Lydia waited. — I know you think I was horrible to Alex last night, Christine apologised. Only the way Lydia held her head, poised on her neck swan-like, as if she were holding it up above dirty water, expressed any criticism. — You know what he’s like, though! He can be so – inexorable.

Lydia blinked thoughtfully, her eyelids painted with blue shadow. — I don’t mind him when he’s inexorable.

— Well I do. I hated him for it last night. He hated me too, so it was only fair. I can’t love him every minute of every day.

— But isn’t that what you’re meant to do? Lydia said.

— Our married relationships are very different, yours and mine. It’s easy to be nice to Zach.

— That’s true.

— Isn’t it impossible, though, anyway, to love someone all the time? That’s why marriage is a contract. Those awful vows people invent for themselves now: ‘I promise to always love the way you rub your nose’, or ‘I promise that your singing will always make me happy’. But sometimes the way he rubs his nose will make you want to kill him! You stay with him because it’s in your contract, it’s the deal you agreed. ‘In sickness and in health’. That gets you over the tough spot. He stays with you for the same reason. It’s more decent.

Lydia didn’t laugh, she was in an odd mood: almost reproachful. — But you are happy, aren’t you?

— Well, of course I am. I’m so lucky. Christine pressed the end of the charcoal on her page, bending over it, breaking it accidentally, making a jagged mark, seeing her drawing through a blur of emotion. — But how ridiculous, Lydia. You’ve made me cry. Only it’s not about what you think: not Alex. It’s Isobel.

— What’s wrong with Isobel? Lydia asked patiently, but less interested.

— Nothing’s wrong with her. It’s only me. I can’t bear to imagine our home without her in it, when she goes off to university. Her absence haunts the place already, before she’s even gone. When she plays the piano – not very well, I know – I can only think how empty the rooms will be without her music in them. It’s sentimental, I’m well aware! But if there’s anyone I passionately and irrationally love, in the way you mean, it’s my child. Isn’t that strange?

— But she’ll come back for holidays.