It was his turn tonight to be with Michael, his turn to relieve the rota of friends who looked after a man who was dying. Michael would be querulous and difficult which was his right. And the same old worry nagged at Harry as he walked into a café and ordered a large espresso: was he losing weight? Did he feel as well as he should? It would surely be best to know: he couldn’t put off his own test much longer. A grown man in his late fifties behaving like an adolescent.

‘But I feel fine,’ he muttered to himself. Then he caught sight of himself in the café mirror and turned away.

*

At the tube station Frances Kitson, pulling at her yellow dress that had seemed to get caught round her large bottom, had waved goodbye to Emmy Lou Brown; the taxi, caught in the Saturday traffic, allowed her to watch as Emmy Lou, her back dispirited somehow, disappeared downwards, rather unsteadily, underground.

Her taxi passed Terence Blue’s red BMW, and Frances waved but they didn’t see her. The reunion must’ve dribbled on for hours, she thought to herself. Sitting next to Terence in the front seat in her purple dress was Simone Taylor, who used to be crazy about him and banged her shoe on the bannisters and sang Judy Garland songs leaning on a piano.

Twice, as the taxi slowly made its way through the traffic to Shepherds Bush, Frances saw huge posters for Diversions: Terence’s face smiled out, shining in the evening sunshine.

When she arrived at her mother’s place she had a pounding headache. All my own fault. She rang the bell, stared at the still blue sky and wished with all her heart that it would rain. She hated this heat, she was too fat, it made her sweat too much, her hair stuck to her forehead; the heat didn’t suit her. She knew it was so unusual for London, this heatwave going on and on even though summer was nearly over; people couldn’t deal with it, kept looking for rain and arguing about privatised water. Finally her mother’s voice crackled on the doorphone.

‘It’s me Mum,’ said Frances and her mother pressed the buzzer to unlock the communal front door. Frances was glad to get into the cool, dark corridor; walked along to the door of her mother’s ground-floor flat. Her mother would have prepared, slowly and painfully because of her arthritis, what she usually prepared when she was expecting Frances: cold chicken and boiled potatoes and some lettuce.