It was more likely to be her mother on the phone than his – or it might be their daughter Isobel, and Christine wanted to talk to her. Giving up on the handset, not bothering to fish in her bare feet for her espadrilles, she hurried up the stairs, taking them two at a time – she could still do it – to where the phone extension was, in their bedroom in the attic. The music carried on without her in the room behind, Schubert or something, and as Christine dropped onto the side of the bed and answered the phone breathlessly she was aware of the sweetness of a tumbling succession of descending notes. This room they had made under the sharp angles of the roof held in all the heat of the day and was thick with smells – traffic fumes, honeysuckle from the garden below, dusty carpet, books, her perfume and face cream, the faint body-staleness of their sheets. The prints and photographs and drawings on the walls – her own work, some of it – had sunk into the shadows, obliterated, and only the pattern of their framed shapes showed against the white paint. Through the open skylight she could hear the blackbird now.

Sweetness.

— Yes?

There was some confusion of noises at the other end of the line, as if the call was coming from a public place like a station, where it was difficult to speak. Intently someone was asking for her. — Can you hear me?

— Is it you, Lyd? Christine felt herself smiling pleasantly, sociable even though she couldn’t be seen, sitting on the low bed with her knees pressed together. She thought that Lydia must have been drinking, which wasn’t unheard of. Her voice was heavy, slurring as if something in it had come loose. — What are you up to?

— I’m at the hospital, Lydia shouted. — Something’s happened.

— What’s happened?

— It’s Zachary. He was taken ill at work.

The room quaked and its stillness adjusted, a few dust motes came spiralling down from the ceiling. Unheard of for anything to harm Zachary. He was a rock, he was never ill. No, nothing so numb as a rock: a striding cheerful giant with torrents of energy. Christine said she would call a cab at once, be with Lydia in half an hour at the most. — Which hospital? Which ward should I come to? What’s the matter with him?

— It’s his heart.

— He’s had a heart attack?

— They don’t know really, Lydia said. — But they think it’s his heart. One minute apparently he was in the office at the gallery, perfectly fine, talking to Jane Ogden about a new show, the next minute he keeled over. Hit the desk, everything went flying. Maybe he hit his head when he hit the desk.

— And what’s happening now? Are they going to operate?

— Why aren’t you listening, Christine? I told you, he’s dead.