“Then perhaps you need to use a little more imagination like my sister says.”

“I believe she was talking about us both.”

“Now her friend’s got us falling out as well, and that’s enough of him.” My mother turned to stare at me again as if I was somehow implicated. “Unless he goes away,” she said, “you won’t be seeing Thelma again without us.”

“You’ll come and stay when I do, you mean.”

“No.” She paused long enough to let me feel I’d had all the response my suggestion deserved. “You won’t be seeing her again,” she said, “while there’s any chance her friend’s around.”

I was about to appeal to my father when he said “I’m afraid that’s our decision, son.”

“But if it’s only what he looks like…”

“I didn’t say that,” my mother said, “and there’s a great deal else I don’t care for. Now I won’t discuss it any more, especially not with you, Patrick.”

I slumped into a frustrated sulk as only a teenager could, and we never mentioned Abel again. After that I saw my aunt just once more, when she came to stay with us at Christmas, an occasion that felt laden with the undiscussed. Even the festive meal and the seasonal game of Monopoly seemed somehow inhibited, driving the adults to manufacture jollity to compensate. If this was for my benefit, I wished they hadn’t bothered, but perhaps they were anxious to convince one another that nothing had changed, at least between them.

I remembered all this as I sat at my desk, making notes on The Master and Margarita in preparation for next term. I was trying to restrict my thoughts to the novel – the memories of visiting my aunt had begun to feel as if I hadn’t fully understood some part of them that needed to be grasped – when the phone rang and announced my mother. I could almost have imagined my memories had functioned as a summons. “How are you both?” she said.

“All doing well, I think.”

“Are Roy and his friend with you just now?”

“No, I’m on my own. Busy, though.”

“Can you organise your party?” my father said at a little distance. “We’re on our way to buy everybody dinner.”

“Really, you shouldn’t. You’ve already bought lunch.”

“That wasn’t all of you,” my mother said. “We’d like it to be this time. What’s Roy’s friend called again?”

I wondered if my mother’s memory had begun to let her down. “Bella,” I said.

“Bella, of course, Bella. Bella, Jonathan.”

Was it his memory that had developed a lapse? “Yes,” he said tonelessly enough to suggest the possibility.

“Will she be coming home with Roy, Patrick?”

“I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Do your best to see she does, could you? We want to meet her properly. Where are they both?”