Half an hour later, when he came up to their room, they argued. What had she thought he should do? Meekly eat the inedible veal? He should not have chosen veal in the first place. It would have disagreed with him. Just because she only fed him muck at home did not mean he could not eat decently when away. She was sure he ate "decently" every lunchtime then, at Masons, judging by his waistline.

Eventually they packed, Clive Mills paid the hotel bill, loudly proclaiming that at such prices one anticipated proper food, and they left.

The drive was long, and accomplished in silence, save when Clive swore at other motorists.

As they came up the steps of the house, Amanda had seen the glow of light in the living room through a crack in the dralon curtains. Timothy was in. Thank God. She could tell him about dive's awful behavior. Although Timothy would pretend not to listen, she knew that it was her side he would take. When he had been a little boy, how he had loved her. Sometimes he had got on her nerves, she had to admit, but children were like that. When he had been dressed in his good clothes, how gorgeous he had looked. And he had held her hand so tightly.

The instant after she called his name, he sprang out into the hall. She had just noticed the flowers she-had left dying by the mirror, but Timothy's face made her forget the flowers.

"Here we are," said Amanda. "Your father made a scene at the hotel. There was no point in staying. So much for the weekend."

"Ah—right," said Timothy.

"What's the matter?" said Clive.

"Matter?" asked Timothy.

He seemed to want to demonstrate, by the angle of his body, that the living room did not exist.

"You've got some of your mates around," deduced Clive.

Amanda knew a surge of fear, beer cans on the carpet, perhaps cigarettes.

"That's all right," said Clive. "I'm going up to my den. Your mother probably wants to sulk."

Amanda moved past Timothy. He did not try to stop her but fell away like a spent petal.

"And who is this?" said Amanda.

The girl was sitting on the couch, barefoot with bright red nails. She looked about twenty, the way they all did from thirteen upward. Her face was expressionless, like a bad painting. She was ugly, amid a tidal wave of blue-black hair.

"Oh, this is—this is Ruth, Mom." Timothy smiled.

His eyes were set like jelly. "You remember? I met her months ago at Jake's party. She comes up to visit—to visit her—grandmother." He did a sort of pirouette. "We met in Marks and Sparks. So we had—dinner."

"I'm glad someone did," said Clive.

"Ruth," said Amanda.