By what unearned privilege has Dido come by this house with its view of the hill? Sylvia had always found Dido’s tales of bored superiority, crammed with obscure allusions and multilingual self-flattery, hard to take, let alone to keep straight. Dido’s nonchalant sense of privilege bred an overbearing generosity that only succeeded in making Sylvia feel meager and resentful. She’s trying now to cantilever the phone directory up onto the writing shelf, to look up Dido’s mother—if she could just remember her last name. Had she ever known Dido’s maiden name? It’s probably of little consequence: who could know how many times Dido’s mother herself had been married. She slaps the directory shut.

She’s got no choice. Again she picks up her address book, this time running her forefinger over the tabs to “M.” She reads and quickly memorizes the number, turns the book over to keep her place, and reaches into her coat pocket for fourpence. Her finger traces a modulating crescent over and over on the dial, the chrome disc ticking back each time into place. A pause, and then the double burr.

“Hullo,” answers Dido’s throaty, smoker’s voice.

Quick, a deep breath—poised and cool: “Dido, it’s Sylvia.”

“Sylvia,” Dido drawls out, exhaling through her nose. Sylvia can just picture her: standing in her marble-surfaced kitchen, tapping her ever-present cigarette pack. One bony hand on her hip, the boyish slouch and wide red hairband, a halo of smoke ringing her flawless black bob. “How nice of you to call. Where are you these days?”

“I’m in Devon.”

“Oh,” Dido says, breathing evenly into the phone. “I thought you were back in London.”

“No—” Sylvia answers. The muscles in her neck contract.

“Did you get your telephone replaced, then?” Dido asks.

The calculated malice! “No,” Sylvia responds, “I’m calling from a public kiosk.”

“That’s astounding,” Dido says, “as there’s a baby pram looking just like yours, the one we bought for you, in front of the phone box on the corner here on Regent’s Park Road. Filled with bags of money, it would seem, from the look of it.”

Except for the muffled gasps of Nick’s weeping into her coat collar, there is only foreboding silence from Sylvia’s end of the telephone line.

“In fact,” Dido continues, “there’s a charming little girl in the box I can see from my window who appears to be the very image of my lovely goddaughter, and she’s licking the glass. What’s all that crying about?”

Swinging Nicholas onto her hip, Sylvia tucks her chin into the earpiece of the phone, holding it steady, and reaches down to take Frieda’s hand, easing her away from the kiosk glazings. She quickly wipes her fingertips first across Frieda’s warm wet tongue, then onto the seat of her own wool coat. Her hand comes back wetter.