I touched her shoulder. 'Cathy - it's Oli,' I said. 'Look - over there. He's - I'm sorry. I just, I just want to get out of here.'

Open-mouthed, Cathy turned. She looked over to where I was staring.

There, his elbows on the bar, hands waggling intently as he talked fast and low, was Oli. He was saying something to a girl with her back to us. She had blonde hair, and was wearing a high-waisted tulip skirt, a puff-sleeved little shirt and tights with a black seam, and she was nodding at him.

'Oh, my God,' Cathy said. 'It's Oli! Bastard.'

As if by some kind of magic alchemy the music stopped and the thunderous chatter abated for a few seconds, the way there is suddenly a strange lull in a noisy bar. Cathy's voice echoed around our corner, so loudly that Oli looked up and saw us.

Pushing himself off the bar, Oli stood up straight. He raised his hand as if in greeting and then, obviously thinking better of it, walked towards us, turning the handwave into a ruffle through his thick dark hair, which stuck up on end even more as a result.

'Cathy,' he said, kissing her cheek. 'Hi.'

'Hi,' Cathy replied, leaning up on tiptoe to kiss him. 'Look, I'll—' 'I was just going,' I said to him. 'Honestly.'

'I'll see you outside,' said Cathy, vanishing discreetly towards the Ladies. We stood on the pavement on Whitechapel Road. It was still light.

'Look, I'm sorry I haven't called,' Oli said. He looked much younger. Dressed much younger, in a cardigan, jeans, plimsolls. I held up my hand.

'No, it's fine. I haven't either. You got my email, about you maybe moving back into the flat,

though?'

'Yeah,' he said. 'Yeah. It's a good idea. If you're sure?'

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'Definitely,' I said. 'I don't want to go back there, honestly. How - how're Jason and Lucy? You still staying with them?'

A tiny hesitation. 'Yep. They're well. You still liking Jay's?'

'Yeah,' I said, slinging my bag over my shoulder. 'Went back to the flat the other day to get some stuff, saw you'd been back too.'

'Yeah, me too,' Oli said. 'Needed a few more things. I guess we should . . .'

'Yes, I guess we should,' I said, not knowing quite what the next stage is with this. Instruct the divorce lawyer, say I'm going through with it? Proof of adultery, like in a creaky old thirties farce?

'Anyway,' Oli said. 'How've you been?'

'I'm OK,' I said. 'How about you?'

It was as if we finally had something in common we could talk about. The breakdown of our marriage and how we're both dealing with it.

'OK too,' Oli said. 'Up and down, you know. I miss . . .' He trailed off. 'I don't know what I miss. I miss you, Natasha. I do miss us, being at our flat. I miss . . .' He scratched his head. 'Ugh. It's - yeah, it's weird. Weird to think I failed. We failed.'

I loved this Oli, the eager, kind person I fell in love with. I smiled at him. 'I know. I think that's what I miss. What I wanted it to be.'

He nodded, and our eyes met, as though we understood each other. He took my hand.

'Yes,' he said. 'I suppose there's no point in bullshitting any more, you guessed it. That's Chloe in there. It's her friend's birthday drinks.'

He was looking into my eyes, with such sincerity that it took me a moment to reconcile what he was saying with how he was saying it. And when I did I stepped back, gave a short laugh.

'Oh, wow,' I said. 'Right then.'

'It's going really well again,' Oli said. 'That's why - hey, that's why I feel I have to be straight with

you.'

There was a roar of noise as the door opened and Cathy appeared next to us on the pavement. 'So . . . ?' she said, looking from one to the other. 'We off then?'

'Yes,' I said. I turned to Oli. 'I'll be in touch about the loan. I owe you—'

'Hey, Natasha, I mean it. Don't worry about that for the moment,' he said, nodding. 'After everything, it's fine, it really is. I owe you, not the other way round. Plus, I know you need some time to get on your feet again.'

I thought of the new orders I've had lately, of me skipping up Brick Lane to drop the latest consignments off at various shops, of the meeting with the woman from Liberty . . . I smiled at him.

'Not any more. Honestly.' I held out my hand. 'Thanks,' I said, looking into his deep blue eyes one more time. 'Thanks, Oli. Have a—'

I wanted to say have a nice life. But it sounds bitchy, sarcastic, and in that moment, I really meant it. I did want him to have a nice life.

'Have a great evening,' I said instead, and Cathy and I went off down the street together, and the rest of the night was thankfully without incident. But I didn't sleep when I got back, not a wink. I wouldn't have asked for either of those encounters, you know. But that's life.

7:29, and there's a sudden commotion, as the last people are flooding onto the train. I rub my eyes, trying to put last night out of my mind, and what happens next. This is what happens next, I tell myself, as the doors open again, one last time, and there's Guy. He doesn't look ruffled, like someone who's run

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to catch the train. He looks as if he's been casually waiting till the last minute, to avoid having to spend any extra time with us, I think to myself.

'Guy!' Louisa squeaks. 'Thank God! We'd nearly given up on you! Miranda's going to miss it, I'm afraid!'

'I'm sure she won't,' he says, putting his battered leather holdall next to my overnight bag. 'Hello, Natasha.'

'Hi,' I say. 'Hello - hi, Frank,' he says. 'Good to see you, Guy,' Frank says, not really looking up from thefelegraph.

Guy kisses Louisa. 'Hello, old girl,' he says. 'You look wonderful. Thanks for booking these. Sorry I'm late. I was being rather stupid.'

'You're here now,' says Louisa, practically weeping with relief. The train moves off, so slowly at first that I'm not sure whether it's moving or the platform is. 'Oh, dear,' she exclaims. 'Miranda - she is awful—'

The doors burst open, and Mum rushes through. 'My God!' she cries. 'My God. These damned -this stupid Tube! I left Hammersmith over an hour ago! Would you believe it!'

She pulls strands of hair, which have glued themselves to her lip gloss, away from her face. She smiles brightly at all of us. Her pupils are dilated, her skin lightly tanned and perfectly clear. She could be my sister, not Cecily's. I stare at her, transfixed all over again by her. 'Hello! Well, here we are. Off for a lovely day back at the old homestead,' she says, sliding into the seat next to Guy, so she and I are sitting beside each other, only the passageway in between us.

'Hi, Guy,' she says brightly.

He doesn't even look at her. Even in the midst of all this, alarm bells ring yet again; there's something there. Something else she's not telling us. What did she do to him to make him like this? 'Yes,' he says.

The train draws out of the station, and the early-morning sun hits my eyes. I squint. 'Hi, Mum,' I say, and I'm annoyed to hear my voice shaking.

She turns away from Guy and puts her hand on my leg, across the divide. 'It's going to be OK,' my mother says. 'Promise.'

Chapter Forty-Three

Last time I was going to Cornwall, it seemed as if winter would never end. This time, it is glorious. We

speed out of London and the trees are thick with new buds, sprouting like green fingers. There are even

a few lambs in the fields, and white blossom smothering the black hawthorn branches. The countryside

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through the southernmost Somerset Levels is bright green, with a kind of alertness to it, as if everything is quivering with new life.

I stare out of the window watching the countryside unfold, coming awake again. I am the sole occupant of my table, as it turns out, but at the next table an uneasy silence reigns. The Bowler Hat reads the paper, Guy hunches over, writing notes on an auction catalogue, and Louisa puts her reading glasses on and shuffles through a file of papers on the launch of the foundation. My mother is sitting upright, her eyes closed, but I know she's not asleep.

Somewhere around Glastonbury, Louisa puts her pen down. 'Should we talk about what's going to happen?' she says. 'I mean, I've deliberately kept this easy to manage, and of course Didier is really responsible for it all—'

'Didier?' I ask.

'Didier du Vallon,' Louisa says. 'He was Franty's - he was your grandmother's dealer.'

'Darling Didier,' Mum murmurs, her eyes still closed. Louisa ignores this, and shuffles the papers again. I can see she is flustered. 'Of course, it's primarily the launch of the foundation at the house today, of course.' She blushes at her repetition and it is strange to see her so unsure of herself. Normally she's good at being in charge: organising trips to the beach, scooting people into cars, sorting out the house, the funeral. 'There will be a few art critics there, a few local papers, some local friends, you know.'

'No national papers?' Mum opens her eyes. 'I would have thought—'

'It's a six-hour journey to Summercove from London,' Louisa says firmly. 'And this isn't the retrospective we're announcing, anyway. You know that. It's too soon after Frances's death to have organised a proper exhibition: this is just a taster, the paintings Didier and the family had, and so forth . . . That'll be in London, in 2011. Won't it?'

She looks at Mum for confirmation of this. Mum shrugs. 'I suppose so,' she says grandly. 'Archie and I need to discuss it.'

'Wonderful,' Louisa says, slightly thin-lipped. 'So, the schedule is as follows: One p.m., arrive at Penzance, where Frank and I will pick up our hire car and go to Summer-cove—' She turns to Mum. 'Miranda, Archie is picking you up, and you'll both go and collect Arvind from Lamorna House. OK?'

'Mm,' says my mother. I really can't see how she can find fault with this. She's being incredibly childish. Guy is still pretending to make the odd note here and there but I know he's taking it all in.

'Great,' I interject, smiling at Louisa with my usual 'She's not normally like this!' smile, which won't work with my mother's own cousin of course, but sometimes helps. 'Then kick-off is at—?'

'There are drinks, and then your mother makes her speech at three-thirty,' says Louisa. 'Just welcoming everyone, explaining the aims of the foundation as set out by her parents, and talking a bit about Aunt Frances.'

Mum points to her bag. 'Oh, yes,' she says. 'My moment in the spotlight.'

Guy does look up then. He stares thoughtfully at her, then flicks a glance at me. I suddenly feel rather sick, as if the three of us are bound into this thing together.

When we pull in to Penzance a few hours later, my stomach is grumbling, so close to lunchtime. It is a long journey. There are fresh, frothing waves bouncing on the blue sea, St Michael's Mount is glowing in a windy sunlit bay, and when we step off the train a warm wind - not tropical, but not icy - nearly knocks me sideways. I forget how windy it can be down here. When I was little, a gust of wind whipped

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my ice-cream out of my hand and into the sea at Sennen Cove, and I was so shocked I nearly fell in after it.

We make a strange band, the five of us, emerging out of the station. We are polite to each other but the oddness of the situation increases, as though we are inexorably tumbling towards the heart of something, the nearer we get to Summercove. The closest way I can think of to describe it is on Christmas Day, when you're all standing around in your best clothes, rather awkwardly waiting for something else to happen and it's a Thursday, and you suddenly remember that and think how odd it is. The Bowler Hat strides off to the car-hire place, and Guy goes with him. He has barely spoken a word the whole trip. I glance at my mother.

'When did you get back then, Mum?'

'Oh, late last night,' she says. 'We got delayed, a problem with some of the stuff we'd bought in a market in Fez. Fez is wonderful, darling, you must go there.' Suddenly her face lights up. 'There's Archie!'