— Good gracious! Don’t be so silly, her mother calmly said. — Of course it isn’t that. How idiotic. That’s not what the problem is. Have you fallen for him? I wouldn’t be surprised, he’s very nice. He likes you. I think he likes you, Chris, tremendously. But the problem is Lydia, isn’t it?

When she got home later that night – though her mother had pressed her to stay over, in her old bedroom – Lydia was still up, just as Christine had hoped she wouldn’t be, sitting reading in the kitchen. She had the three-bar electric fire plugged in and blazing away, careless of the expense. It was only when Christine came in from Hampstead that she noticed how their rented house smelled stale with damp and gas and vegetables past their best. Lydia was undressed for bed, in a vintage satin nightdress splashed with a pattern of peach-coloured roses, wrinkled against her smooth skin because she never ironed anything. In her drenched dark coat, flushing with the sudden heat, hair lank with wet, Christine felt painfully that she was not beautiful. Lydia’s hair, naturally the colour of streaked wild honey, was pinned up on her head in a floppy bow and her bare feet, tucked under her on the chair, showed rosy heels.

— This floor’s sticky, Lydia remarked in surprised distaste, as if it hadn’t occurred to her that someone ought to wash it. Alex’s Foucault was open on the table in front of her, along with a Mars bar on a plate, sliced into thin slivers – she kept this in the fridge, and allowed herself one slice per night. She lived on eked-out morsels of cakes and treats and was an awful cook, too easily bored to follow a recipe, inventing dishes out of unlikely combinations – grilled banana with tuna or cold pasta salad with tinned peaches and sweetcorn – then throwing away her disasters almost in triumph, as if she’d cheated her own appetite. She said that she was struggling with the book, whose passionate polemic was too remote to make sense to her: like an explosion far off among the stars. And eyeing the Mars bar she confessed that she’d had her slice already, but wanted another one. — I want it now, but if I eat it then in a minute I’ll wish I hadn’t. So, is it going well? Isn’t Zachary just the nicest? Didn’t I make a good plan for you?

Christine lifted eyes heavy with her doom. — Haven’t you noticed, Lydia? Zachary doesn’t really want me.

— You’re made for each other!

— Well no, actually. He wants you, it’s obvious. He just can’t help himself – talking about you, for instance, at every opportunity.

— What are you saying?

— I was just pretending not to know.