He had mentioned Lottie—that she was older than he was, that they’d busked together on the streets of London. Not a girlfriend: just a woman. He’d been a teenager when they met. When Sadie thought of it, the act was in the jittery black and white of long ago. But he never spoke of worship. Her ankles were sore. She wondered if there was somewhere to take a nap, or even time enough.

“You must make him tell you about Lottie,” said Eloise. “It’s important.”

“All right,” said Sadie. She crouched to the dog. “Hello, Shithead.”

“His name,” said Eloise, “is Seamus.”

“Oh! I thought—”

“Shithead’s his nickname,” said Eloise, fondly, to the dog.

The wedding was at five, with reception to follow. Most of the party went to the hotel in town to get ready, but the broke relatives—Sadie and Jack, Katie and Fred and their children—stayed behind. Sadie and Jack got ready in the blue bedroom, where the old man had died.

“Where’s my bag?” said Jack. They had not been together long enough to pack in the same suitcase.

“There. Is your family always like that?”

“English? Yes.”

“Obsessed with shit.”

He laughed. “Right. English. That didn’t bother you.”

“I’ve had anxiety dreams more relaxing. Shame about your mother’s gout.”

“Gout? No gout. Where did you get gout?”

“Eloise said.”

“Yes, she would. No: the problem is that Fiona converted to Catholicism and is now marrying an atheist.”

“Which is worse?”

“Hard to tell.”

“How’s being Jewish?” she asked. “If she’s against Catholics.”

“You’re not Jewish.”

“I am Jewish. Are you in the wedding party?”

“No.”

“What’s with the suit?”

He was stepping into striped pants. “It’s my morning suit. It’s what you wear to weddings.”

“You own that suit?”

“Yes,” he said. Then, “Your mother’s Jewish.”

“Yes, my mother’s Jewish, so I’m Jewish.”

“Says who?”

“Jews the wide world over. Didn’t you know that? Matrilineal, mate.”

“Huh,” he said. “Don’t call me mate. No, I think she’d be fine with that. You didn’t choose it, after all.”

“But what if I did?”

“Sadie,” said Jack.

“What about Lottie?”

“She wasn’t Jewish.”

“Did you know she was invited to the wedding?”

Jack smiled, but he also began to arrange his hair, his major vanity, the dark curls that he wore swept off his forehead. “No, she’s not,” he said.

“Eloise said she was.”

He laughed with some relief. “Don’t believe what Eloise says.”

“She says you worshipped Lottie.”

“Bollocks I did.”

“I love it when you speak British. And you didn’t sleep together.”

“Not often.”

Sadie laughed. Jack didn’t.

“Not often,” he said again.

“Near the start or near the end?”

He took his hands from his hair. “Right near the middle,” he said.