Alex wouldn’t discuss being part of any commune in Italy, not even playfully. At this point he was working part-time as a postman as well as tutoring in English as a foreign language; he and Christine were living in a tiny cramped place in Streatham, behind Brixton prison, and between them they hardly made enough to cover their rent and bills and food. Christine had a job helping in a school office three days a week; it wasn’t the same school as Isobel’s, and at the end of those afternoons there was always an awful hiatus, worst in the rain, when she had to dash like mad on her bike to be in time to pick Isobel up. On the other two days Christine painted – or drew, or scratched – in her box-room studio at the end of the landing. Zachary had to sleep among her paints when he stayed, and said he felt the beneficence of her art sifting down upon him in the dark, doing him good. When Zachary tried to give them money to help out, Alex walked out of the house in a cold rage without saying a word, and Christine with Zachary’s arm around her sobbed into his broad accommodating chest, his soft good shirt.

— Why couldn’t he just have refused your generous, loving offer in kind words, like any normal person? He’s so horrible, Zach!

— Or accepted it.

— No, of course we do refuse it: although thank you, you’re lovely, you’re so kind.

This was another tradition: that she accused Alex of intransigence and intolerance, of having impossible lofty standards, and Zachary – perplexed and upset on her behalf – managed to comfort her without giving away his friend. — I was tactless and he’s fine-tuned, he said, furious with himself. — I’m an oaf, I should think before I speak.

Christine sat up and mopped at her eyes with a tissue, blew her nose. — Why does everyone have to tiptoe round Alex’s moods? I’m never, ever supposed to criticise him in any way. I have to tread so carefully, taking care not to say the wrong thing, because it’s too tedious, frankly, if we get into another fight, and then he’s sulking and doesn’t speak to me for days, so that eventually I have to make the effort and coax him round, and he doesn’t even know that he’s been coaxed. I want to make everything nice, Zach, I want us to have a happy home. Why shouldn’t it be happy? Isn’t it better to live pleasantly? You and Lydia aren’t like this!