‘Things we should never forget,’ she said to herself, pulling the duvet up a bit so his chest was covered. Funny to think that night after night they went to sleep next to each other and lay there hour after hour together, both trapped in their own secret dreams.

Six

By the time Adrian’s parents arrived for Christmas lunch, the children had been up for seven hours. The turkey was roasting, the vegetables were in their pans ready to cook, the pudding was tied up with muslin and string and was steaming and spitting on the hob, a new fire had been laid on top of last night’s embers and lit, a few delicate petals of ash fluttering round the room, the lights on the tree were turned on – although several had been broken already, and the floor was littered with sharp pine needles and moulting tinsel. They had to get chairs and a wobbly stool from upstairs and squash together round the table, their elbows pressing against each other, legs tangling.

‘So what’s up on the work front?’ Adrian’s father asked after his second glass of wine. ‘Anything happening?’

‘This and that,’ said Adrian. He pushed a chunk of turkey onto his fork, then speared a bit of potato and a sprout, dunked it in the gravy. ‘You know how it is with acting.’ He pushed the overloaded fork into his mouth.

‘This and that.’ His father swilled the words round his mouth, tasting them judiciously. ‘This and that.’

Irene glared at him but he pretended not to notice.

‘That’s right.’ Adrian was still chewing stolidly.

‘Shall we pull our crackers?’ said Irene. ‘Take your elbow out of your plate, Clem.’

‘Any parts then?’

‘Not as such. Possibilities,’ said Adrian.

‘Not even panto? At this time of year I would have thought –’

‘All cross your arms,’ said Irene. ‘That’s the way. Hold that little tab there, Aggie. See? When I say go, then pull it as hard as you can.’

‘I saw that friend of yours on tv the other day,’ said Adrian’s father, Graham. ‘Some romantic comedy – he was awfully good.’

‘Oh well, stuff like that,’ said Adrian disdainfully.

‘You mean to say, you’ve turned down stuff like that?’

‘Crackers,’ said Irene forcefully. ‘One, two, three …’

‘Anyway, he’s doing well, isn’t he? I’m always seeing his name. Can’t he help you out? Give you a leg-up?’

‘It doesn’t work like that.’

‘Or I could always ask around at work to see if there are any opportunities …’

‘Pull!’ cried Irene.

‘You’re still quite young,’ said Adrian’s father, carefully arranging a pink paper hat on his greying hair. ‘Forty’s nothing these days. You can always retrain, after all.’

‘I’ve got a thimble,’ said Sasha. ‘But it’s a bit big for me. I can wear it on my thumb, I suppose.’

‘Knock knock.’

‘Who’s there?’

‘Boo.’

‘Boo who?’

‘Ah, don’t cry.’