“I hear you.” Carrie puts a roast chicken into the middle of the table. It hadn’t actually occurred to me to ask what we were having. “Fi, you carve whilst I grab the veggies.”

“Was it always going to be acting for you, Carrie?” Fiona asks, as she hacks at the chicken with a total lack of finesse.

“Yeah, though Mum was never keen,” Carrie says over her shoulder as she drains something green in the sink.

“Really?” I ask, surprised. “I thought she went to all your plays.” Where did I get that impression from? Was I told it, or did I just assume?

“She had a ticket to them all. She actually came to very few.” Her mouth twists briefly, but then the corners lift. “Dad moved heaven and earth to come, of course. To every one. Though I don’t know if he’ll make it up to this one; his hip is getting really bad . . .” She trails off, and I see the future that she worries about laid bare on her face. Our mother’s death has made her horribly aware that Pete is ten years older than Karen was. “Maybe he shouldn’t even try.”

“You know we won’t be able to stop him.” She smiles ruefully at me. We’re all seated now, our food in front of us. For a few minutes we busy ourselves with our plates, and the only sounds are the clinking of cutlery and the news bulletin on the radio. I’m trying to remember the last play I saw Carrie in, but I always seemed to be out of the country on assignment. I’d like to think I would have made an effort to get there if I’d known only Pete was supporting her. I’d like to think so, but . . . I was busy, living a different life, a life that was all consuming when I was in it, a life that, now that I am temporarily out of it, seems to have all but consumed me. I would make the effort now, though. Now, I definitely would.

And so, dinner is nice. We talk about all sorts of things, and nothing much. Fiona isn’t odd or enigmatic—apart from the beeping on her watch every half hour, but even that I’m starting to get used to. She’s just a woman having a nice meal and a glass of wine with friends. She’s refreshingly blunt and slightly intense when something particularly catches her interest, but there is nothing to suggest she might be fond of the odd cigarette in a stranger’s home. I feel myself splinter in two as we eat and talk and start a second bottle of wine. Most of me is sitting at the table, enjoying the evening, one I never expected to happen. But then there’s part of me observing, watching, unable to trust what I’m seeing.