Chapter Three

Nine hours later were all still in the meeting.

The huge mahogany table is strewn with photocopied draft contracts, financial reports, notepads covered in scribbles, polystyrene coffee cups, and Post-​its. Take-​out boxes from lunch are littering the floor. A secretary is distributing fresh copies of the draft agreement. Two of the lawyers from the opposition have got up from the table and are murmuring intently in the breakout room. Every meeting room has one of these: a little side area where you go for private conversations, or when you feel like breaking something.

The intensity of the afternoon has passed. Its like an ebb in the tide. Faces are flushed, tempers are still high, but no ones shouting anymore. The Fallons and Smithleaf people have gone. They reached agreement on various points at about four oclock, shook hands, and sailed off in their shiny limos.

Now its up to us, the lawyers, to work out what they said and what they actually meant (and if you think its the same thing, you might as well give up law now) and put it all into a draft contract in time for more negotiations.

When theyll probably begin shouting some more.

I rub my dry face and take a gulp of cappuccino before realizing Ive picked up the wrong cupthe stone-​cold cup from four hours ago. Yuck. Yuck . And I cant exactly spit it out all over the table.

I swallow the revolting mouthful with an inward shudder. The fluorescent lights are flickering in my eyes and I feel drained. My role in all of these megadeals is on the finance sideso it was me who negotiated the loan agreement between Fallons and PGNI Bank. It was me who rescued the situation when a £10-million black hole of debt turned up in a subsidiary company. And it was me who spent about three hours this afternoon arguing one single, stupid term in the contract.

The term was best endeavors . The other side wanted to use reasonable efforts . In the end we won the pointbut I cant feel my usual triumph. All I know is, its seven-​nineteen, and in eleven minutes Im supposed to be halfway across town, sitting down to dinner at

Maxims with my mother and brother Daniel.

Ill have to cancel. My own birthday dinner.

Even as I think the thought, I can hear the outraged voice of Freya ringing in my mind.

They cant make you stay at work on your birthday!

I canceled on her too, last week, when we were supposed to be going to a comedy club. A company sell-​off was due to complete the next morning and I didnt have any choice.

What she doesnt understand is, the deadline comes first, end of story. Prior engagements dont count; birthdays dont count. Vacations are canceled every week. Across the table from me is Clive Sutherland from the corporate department. His wife had twins this morning and he was back at the table by lunchtime.

All right, people. Kettermans voice commands immediate attention.

Ketterman is the only one here who isnt red-​faced or weary-​looking or even jaded. He looks as machinelike as ever, as polished as he did this morning. When he gets angry, he just exudes a silent, steely fury.

We have to adjourn.

What? My head pops up.

Other heads have popped up too; I can detect the hope around the table. Were like schoolkids sensing a disturbance during the math test, not daring to move in case we land a double detention.

Until we have the due diligence documentation from Fallons, we cant proceed. Ill see you all tomorrow, here at nine a.m. He sweeps out, and as the door closes, I exhale. I was holding my breath, I realize.

Clive has already bolted for the door. People are on their mobile phones all over the room, discussing dinner, films, un-​canceling previous arrangements. Theres a joyful lift to the proceedings. I have a sudden urge to yell Yay!

But that wouldnt be partnerlike.

I gather up my papers, stuff them into my briefcase, and push back my chair.

Samantha. I forgot. Guy is making his way across the room. I have something for you.

As he hands me a simple white package, I feel a ridiculous rush of joy. A birthday

present. Hes the only one in the whole company who remembered my birthday. I cant help glowing as I undo the cardboard envelope.

Guy, you really shouldnt have!

It was no trouble, he says, clearly satisfied with himself.

Still! I laugh. I thought youd

I break off abruptly as I uncover a corporate DVD in a laminated case. Its a summary of the European Partners presentation we had the other day. I mentioned that Id like a copy.

I turn it over in my hands, making sure my smile is completely intact before I look up. Of course he didnt remember my birthday. Why would he? He probably never even knew it.

Thats... great, I say at last. Thanks! No problem. Hes picking up his briefcase. Have a good evening. Anything planned? I cant tell him its my birthday. Hell thinkhell realize Just... a family thing. I smile. See you tomorrow.

The main thing is, Im going to make dinner after all. And I wont even be late! Last time I had dinner with Mum, about three months ago now, I was an hour late after my plane fromAmsterdam was delayed. Then she had to take a conference call halfway through the main course. It wasnt exactly a success.

As my taxi edges through the traffic onCheapside , I quickly rifle in my bag for my new makeup case. I nipped into Selfridges in my lunch hour the other day when I realized I was still using the old gray eyeliner and mascara I bought for a Law Society dinner a year ago. I didnt have time for a demonstration, but I asked the girl at the counter if she could just quickly sell me everything she thought I should have.

I didnt really listen as she explained each item, because I was on the phone to Elldridge about the Ukrainian contract. But the one thing I do remember is her insistence I should use something called bronzer powder. She said it might give me a glow and stop me looking so dreadfully

Then she stopped herself. Pale, she said at last. Youre...

I take out the compact and huge blusher brush and start sweeping the powder onto my cheeks and forehead. Then, as I peer at my reflection in the mirror, I stifle a laugh. My

face stares back at me, freakishly golden and shiny. I look ridiculous.

I mean, who am I kidding? A City lawyer who hasnt been on holiday for two years doesnt have a tan. I might as well walk in with beads in my hair and pretend Ive just flown in fromBarbados .

I look at myself for a few more seconds, then take out a cleansing wipe and scrub the bronzer off until my face is white again, with shades of gray. Back to normal. The makeup girl kept mentioning the dark shadows under my eyes too, and there they are.

Thing is, if I didnt have shadows under my eyes, Id probably get fired.

Im wearing a black suit, as I always do. My mother gave me five almost identical black suits for my twenty-​first birthday, and Ive never really broken the habit. The only item of color about me is my bag, which is red. Mum gave that to me as well, two years ago. At least... she gave me a black one originally. But on the way home I saw it in a shop window in red, had a total brainstorm, and exchanged it. Im not convinced shes ever forgiven me.

I free my hair from its elastic band, quickly comb it out, then twist it back into place. My hair has never exactly been my pride and joy. Its mouse-​color, medium length, with a medium wave. At least, it was last time I looked. Most of the time it lives screwed up into a knot.

Nice evening planned? says the taxi driver, whos been watching me in his mirror.

Its my birthday, actually.

Happy birthday! He eyes me in the mirror. Youll be partying, then. Making a night of it.

My family and wild parties dont exactly go together. But even so, itll be nice for us to see one another and catch up. It doesnt happen very often.

Its not that we dont want to see one another. We just all have very busy careers. Theres my mother, whos a barrister. Shes quite well-​known, in fact. She started her own chambers ten years ago and last year she won an award for Women in Law. And then theres my brother Daniel, who is thirty-​six and head of investment at Whittons. He was named by Money Management Weekly last year as one of the top deal-​makers in the city.

Theres also my other brother, Peter, but like I said, he had a bit of a breakdown. He lives inFrance now and teaches English at a local school and doesnt even have an answering machine. And my dad, of course, who lives inSouth Africa with his third wife. I havent seen much of him since I was three. But Ive made my peace about this. My mothers got enough energy for two parents.

I glance at my watch as we speed along theStrand . Seven forty-​two. Im starting to feel quite excited. The street outside is still bright and warm and tourists are walking along in T-​shirts and shorts, pointing at the High Court. It must have been a gorgeous summers day. Inside the air-​conditioned Carter Spink building you have no idea what the weather in the real world is doing.

We come to a halt outside Maxims and I pay the taxi driver, adding a large tip.

Have a great evening, love! he says. And happy birthday!

Thanks!

As I hurry into the restaurant, Im looking all around for Mum or Daniel, but I cant spot either of them.

Hi! I say to the maitre d. Im meeting Ms. Tennyson.

Thats Mum. She disapproves of women taking the name of their husband. She also disapproves of women staying at home, cooking, cleaning, or learning to type, and thinks all women should earn more than their husbands because theyre naturally brighter.

The maitre da dapper man who is a good six inches shorter than meleads me to an empty table in the corner and I slide into the suede banquette.

Hi! I smile at the waiter who approaches. Id like a Bucks Fizz, a gimlet, and a martini, please. But dont bring them over until the other guests arrive.

Mum always drinks gimlets. And Ive no idea what Daniels on these days, but he wont say no to a martini.

The waiter nods and disappears, and I shake out my napkin, looking all around at the other diners. Maxims is a pretty cool restaurant, all wenge floors and steel tables and mood lighting. Its very popular with lawyers; in fact, Mum has an account here. Two partners from Linklaters are at a distant table, and I can see one of the biggest libel lawyers inLondon at the bar. The noise of chatter, corks popping, and forks against oversize plates is like the huge roar of the sea, with occasional tidal waves of laughter making heads turn.

As I scan the menu I suddenly feel ravenous. I havent had a proper meal for a week, and it all looks so good. Glazed foie gras. Lamb on minted hummus. And on the specials board is chocolate-​orange souffle with two homemade sorbets. I just hope Mum can stay long enough for pudding. Ive heard her say plenty of times that half a dinner party is enough for anybody. The trouble is, shes not really interested in food. Shes also not that interested in most people, as theyre generally less intelligent than her. Which rules out most potential dinner guests.

But Daniel will stay. Once my brother starts on a bottle of wine, he feels obliged to see it through to the end.

Miss Sweeting? I look up to see the maitre d. Hes holding a mobile phone. I have a message. Your mother has been held up at her chambers.

Oh. I try to hide my disappointment. But I can hardly complain. Ive done the same thing to her enough times. So... what time will she be here?

I think I see a flash of pity in his eyes.

I have her here on the telephone. Her secretary will put her through... Hello? he says into the phone. I have Ms. Tennysons daughter.

Samantha? comes a crisp, precise voice in my ear. Darling, I cant come tonight, Im afraid.

You cant come at all ? My smile falters. Not even... for a drink?

Her chambers is only five minutes away in a cab, inLincoln s Inn Fields.

Far too much on. I have a very big case on and Im in court tomorrow No, get me the other file, she adds to someone in her office. These things happen, she resumes. But have a nice evening with Daniel. Oh, and happy birthday. Ive wired three hundred pounds to your bank account.

Oh, right, I say. Thanks.

I assume you havent heard about the partnership yet.

Not yet.

I heard your presentation went well... I can hear her tapping her pen on the phone. How many hours have you put in this month?

Urn... probably about two hundred...

Is that enough? Samantha, you dont want to be passed over. Youve been working toward this for a long time.

Like I dont know that.

Still, I suppose I should be glad shes not badgering me about whether Ive got a boyfriend. Mum never asks me about my personal life. She expects me to be as focused and driven as she is, if not more so. And even though we dont talk very often anymore, even though shes less controlling than she was when I was younger, I still feel

apprehensive whenever she rings.

There will be younger lawyers coming up behind, she continues. Someone in your position could easily go stale.

Two hundred hours is quite a lot... I try to explain. Compared to the others

You have to be better than the others! Her voice cuts across mine as though shes in a courtroom. You cant afford for your performance to slip below excellent. This is a crucial time Not that file! she adds impatiently to whoever it is. Hold the line, Samantha

Samantha?

I look up in confusion from the phone to see a girl with long swishy blond hair, wearing a powder-​blue suit, approaching the table. Shes holding a gift basket adorned with a bow, and has a wide smile.

ImLorraine , Daniels PA, she says in a singsong voice I suddenly recognize from calling Daniels office. He couldnt make it tonight, Im afraid. But Ive got a little something for youplus hes here on the phone to say hello...

She holds out a lit-​up mobile phone. In total confusion, I take it and press it to my other ear.

Hi, Samantha, comes Daniels businesslike drawl. Look, babe, Im snowed under. I cant be there.

Neitherof them is coming?

Im really sorry, Daniels saying. One of those things. But have a great time with Mum, wont you?

I take a deep breath. I cant admit she blew me off too. I cant admit that Im sitting here all on my own.

OK! Somehow I muster a breezy tone. We will!

Ive transferred some money to your account. Buy something nice. And Ive sent some chocolates along withLorraine , he adds proudly. Picked them out myself.

I look at the gift basketLorraine is proffering. It isnt chocolates, its soap. Thats really lovely, Daniel, I manage. Thanks very much. Happy birthday to you ...

Theres sudden chorusing behind me. I swivel round to see a waiter carrying over a cocktail glass with a sparkler. Happy Birthday Samantha is written in caramel on the steel tray, next to a miniature souvenir menu signed by the chef. Three waiters are following behind, all singing in harmony.

After a moment,Lorraine awkwardly joins in. Happy birthday to you ...

The waiter puts the tray down in front of me, but my hands are full with phones.

Ill take that for you, saysLorraine , relieving me of Daniels phone. She lifts it to her ear, then beams at me. Hes singing! she says, pointing to the receiver encouragingly.

Samantha? Mum is saying in my ear. Are you still there?

Im just... theyre singing Happy Birthday...

I put the phone on the table. After a moments thought,Lorraine puts the other phone carefully down on the other side of me.

This is my family birthday party.

Two cell phones.

I can see people looking over at the singing, their smiles falling a little as they see Im sitting on my own. I can see the sympathy in the faces of the waiters. Im trying to keep my chin up, but my cheeks are burning with embarrassment.

Suddenly the waiter I ordered from earlier appears at the table. Hes carrying three cocktails on a tray and looks at the empty table in slight confusion.

Who is the martini for?

It was... supposed to be for my brother...

That would be the Nokia, saysLorraine helpfully, pointing at the mobile phone.

Theres a pausethen, with a blank, professional face, the waiter sets the drink down in front of the phone, together

I want to laughexcept theres a stinging at the back of my eyes. He places the other cocktails on the table, nods at me, then retreats. Theres an awkward pause.

So anyway...Lorraine retrieves Daniels mobile phone and pops it into her bag. Happy birthdayand have a lovely evening!

As she tip-​taps her way out of the restaurant, I pick up the other phone to say good-​bye but Mums already rung off. The singing waiters have melted away. Its just me and a basket of soap.

Did you wish to order? The maitre has reappeared at my chair. I can recommend the risotto, he says in kind tones. Some nice salad, perhaps? And a glass of wine?

Actually... I force myself to smile. Ill just get the bill, thanks.

It doesnt matter.

We were never all going to make a dinner. We shouldnt even have tried to set the date. Were all busy, we all have careers, thats just the way my family is.

As I stand outside the restaurant, a taxi pulls up right in front of me and I quickly stick my hand out. The rear door opens and a tatty beaded flip-​flop emerges, followed by a pair of cutoff jeans, an embroidered kaftan, familiar tousled blond hair...

Stay here, shes instructing the taxi driver. I can only be five minutes

Freya ? I say in disbelief. She wheels round and her eyes widen.

Samantha! What are you doing on the pavement?

What are you doing here? I counter. I thought you were going toIndia .

Im on my way! Im meeting Lord at the airport in about... She looks at her watch. Ten minutes.

She pulls a guilty face, and I cant help laughing. Ive known Freya since we were both seven years old and in boarding school together. On the first night she told me her family were circus performers and she knew how to ride an elephant and walk the tightrope. For a whole term I believed her stories about the exotic circus life. Until her parents arrived that first Christmas to pick her up and turned out to be a pair of accountants fromStaines . Even then she was unabashed and said shed lied to cover up the real truthwhich was that they were spies.

Shes taller than me, with bright blue eyes and freckled skin, permanently tanned from her travels. Right now her skin is peeling slightly on her nose, and she has a new silver earring, right at the top of her ear. She has the whitest, most crooked teeth Ive ever seen, and when she laughs, one corner of her top lip rises.

Im here to gate-​crash your birthday dinner. Freya focuses on the restaurant in suspicion. But I thought I was late. What happened?

Well... I hesitate. The thing was... Mum and Daniel...

Left early? As she peers at me, Freyas expression changes to one of horror. Didnt turn up ? Jesus Christ, the bastards . Couldnt they just for once put you first instead of their frigging She stops her tirade; she knows Ive heard it all before. Sorry. I know. Theyre your family. Whatever.

Freya and my mum dont exactly get on.

It doesnt matter, I say, shrugging ruefully. Really. Ive got a pile of work to get through anyway.

Work ? Freya looks appalled. Now? Are you serious? Doesnt it ever stop ?

Were busy at the moment. Its just a blip

Theres always a blip! Theres always a crisis! Every year you put off doing anything fun

Thats not true

Every year you tell me work will get better soon. But it never does! Her eyes are filled with concern. Samantha... what happened to your life?

Im silent for a moment, cars roaring along behind me on the street. To be honest, I cant remember what my life used to be like. As I cast my mind back over the years, I recall the holiday I had with Freya inItaly , the summer after A Levels, when we were both eighteen. My last window of real freedom. Since then work has gradually, almost imperceptibly, taken over.

I want to be a partner of Carter Spink, I say at last. Thats what I want. You have to make... sacrifices.

And what happens when you make partner? she persists. Does it get easier?

The truth is, I havent thought beyond making partner. Its like a dream. Like a shiny ball in the sky.

Youre twenty-​nine years old, for Christs sake! Freya gestures with a bony, silver- ringed hand. You should be able to do something spontaneous once in a while. You should be seeing the world! She grabs my arm. Samantha, come toIndia . Now!

Do what? I give a startled laugh. I cant come to India !

Take a month off. Why not? Theyre not going to fire you. Come to the airport, well get you a ticket...

Freya, youre crazy. Seriously. I squeeze her arm. I love youbut youre crazy. Slowly, Freyas grip on my arm loosens. Same, she says. Youre crazy, but I love you.

Her mobile starts ringing, but she ignores it. Instead, she rummages in her embroidered bag. At last she produces a tiny, intricately worked silver perfume bottle haphazardly wrapped in a piece of purple shot silk, which is already falling off.

Here. She thrusts it at me.

Freya. I turn it over in my fingers. Its amazing.

I thought youd like it. She pulls her mobile out of her pocket. Hi! she says impatiently into it. Look, Lord, Ill be there, OK?

Freyas husbands full name is Lord Andrew Edgerly. Freyas nickname for him started as a joke and stuck. They met five years ago on a kibbutz and got married inLas Vegas . Hes tall and phlegmatic and keeps Freya on track during her wilder moments. Hes also amazingly witty once you get past the deadpan exterior. Technically, their marriage makes her Lady Edgerlybut her family cant quite get their heads round this idea. Nor can the Edgerlys.

Thanks for coming. Thanks for this. I hug her. Have a fabulous time inIndia .

We will. Freya is climbing back into her taxi. And if you want to come out, just let me know. Invent a family emergency... anything. Give them my number. Ill cover for you. Whatever your story is.

Go, I say, laughing, and give her a little push. Go toIndia .

The door slams, and she sticks her head out the window.

Sam... good luck for tomorrow. She seizes my hand, suddenly serious. If its really what you wantthen I hope you get it.

Its what I want more than anything else. As I look at my oldest friend, all my calculated nonchalance disappears. Freya... I cant tell you how much I want it.

Youll get it. I know you will. She kisses my hand, then waves good-​bye. And dont go back to the office! Promise! she shouts over the roar of her taxi.

OK! I promise! I yell back. I wait until her cab has disappeared, then stick my hand out for another.

Carter Spink, please, I say as it pulls up.

I was crossing my fingers. Of course Im going back to the office.

I arrive home at eleven oclock, exhausted and brain-​dead, having got through only about half of Kettermans file. Bloody Ketterman, Im thinking, as I push open the main front door of the 1930s-​mansion block where I live. Bloody Ketterman. Bloody... bloody...

Good evening, Samantha.

I nearly jump a mile. Its Ketterman. Right there, standing in front of the lifts, holding a bulging briefcase. For an instant Im transfixed in horror. Whats he doing here?

Someone told me you lived here. His eyes glint through his spectacles. Ive bought number thirty-​two as a pied-​a-​terre. Well be neighbors during the week.

Please tell me this is not happening. He lives here? Er... welcome to the building! I say, trying as hard as I can to sound like I mean it.

The lift doors open and we both get in. Number 32. That means hes only two floors above me. I feel like my headmaster has

moved in. Why did he have to choose this building? The elevator rises in silence. I feel more and more uncomfortable. Should I attempt small

talk? Some light, neighborly chitchat?

I made some headway on that file you gave me, I say at last.

Good, he says curtly, and nods.

So much for the small talk. I should just cut to the big stuff.

Am I going to become a partner tomorrow?

Well... good night, I say awkwardly as I leave the lift.

Good night, Samantha.

The lift doors close and I emit a silent scream. I cannot live in the same building as Ketterman. Im going to have to move.

Im about to put my key in the lock when the door to the opposite flat opens a crack. Samantha?

As if I havent had enough this evening. Its Mrs. Farley, my neighbor. She has silver hair and gold-​rimmed spectacles and an insatiable interest in my life. But she is very kind and takes in parcels for me, so I try to tolerate her intrusive-​ness.

Another delivery arrived for you, dear, she says. Dry cleaning this time. Ill just fetch it for you.

Thanks, I say gratefully, swinging my door open. A small pile of junk leaflets is sitting on the doormat and I sweep them aside, onto the bigger pile building up at the side of my hallway. Im planning to recycle them when I get a moment. Its on my list.

Youre late home again. Mrs. Farley is at my side, holding a pile of polythene-​covered shirts. You girls are so busy! She clicks her tongue. You havent been home before eleven this week!

This is what I mean by an insatiable interest. She probably has all my details logged somewhere in a little book.

Thanks very much. I reach for my dry cleaning, but to my horror Mrs. Farley pushes past me into the flat, exclaiming, Ill carry it in for you!

Er... excuse the... er... mess, I say as she squeezes past a pile of pictures propped against the wall. I keep meaning to put those up...

I steer her hastily into the kitchen, away from the pile of take-​away menus on the hall table. Then I wish I hadnt. On the kitchen counter is a stack of old tins and packets, together with a note from my new cleaner, all in capitals:

DEAR SAMANTHA

1. ALL YOUR FOOD IS PAST ITS SELL-​BY DATES. SHOULD I THROW AWAY?

2. DO YOU HAVE ANY CLEANING MATERIALS, E.G. BLEACH? COULD NOT FIND ANY.

3. ARE YOU COLLECTING CHINESE FOOD CARTONS FOR ANY REASON? DID NOT THROW THEM AWAY, JUST IN CASE.

YOUR CLEANER JOANNE

I can see Mrs. Farley reading the note. I can practically hear the clucking going on in her

head. Last month she gave me a little lecture on did I have a slow cooker, because all you needed to do was put in your chicken and vegetables in the morning and it didnt take five minutes to slice a carrot, did it?

I really wouldnt know.

So... thanks. I hastily take the dry cleaning from Mrs. Farley and dump it on the hob, then usher her out to the door, aware of her swiveling, inquisitive eyes. Its really kind of you.

Its no trouble! Not wishing to interfere, dear, but you know, you could wash your cotton blouses very well at home and save on all that money.

I look at her blankly. If I did that Id have to dry them. And iron them.

And I did just happen to notice that one of them came back missing a button, she adds. The pink and white stripe.

Oh, right, I say. Well... thats OK. Ill send it back. They wont charge.

You can pop a button on yourself, dear! Mrs. Farley is shocked. It wont take you two minutes. You must have a spare button in your workbox?

My what?

I dont have a workbox, I explain as politely as I can. I dont really do sewing.

You can sew a simple button on, surely! she exclaims.

No, I say, a bit rankled at her expression. But its no problem. Ill send it back to the dry cleaners.

Mrs. Farley is appalled. You cant sew a button on? Your mother never taught you?

I stifle a laugh at the thought of my mother sewing on a button. Er... no. She didnt.

In my day, says Mrs. Farley, shaking her head, all well-​educated girls were taught how to sew on a button, darn a sock, and turn a collar.

None of this means anything to me. Turn a collar . Its gibberish.

Well, in my day... we werent, I reply politely. We were taught to study for our exams and get a career worth having. We were taught to have opinions. We were taught to use our brains , I cant resist adding.

Mrs. Farley doesnt seem impressed. Its a shame, she says at last, and pats me

sympathetically.

Im trying to keep my temper, but Ive worked for hours, Ive had a nonexistent birthday, I feel bone-​tired and hungry, Ketterman is living two floors above meand now this old womans telling me to sew on a button ?

Its not a shame, I say tightly.

All right, dear, says Mrs. Farley in pacifying tones, and heads across the hallway to her flat.

Somehow this goads me even more.

How is it a shame? I demand, stepping out of my doorway. How? OK, maybe I cant sew on a button. But I can restructure a corporate finance agreement and save my client thirty million pounds. Thats what I can do.

Mrs. Farley regards me from her doorway. Its a shame, she repeats, as though she didnt even hear me. Good night, dear. She closes the door and I emit a squeal of exasperation.

Did you never hear of feminism? I cry at her door.

But theres no answer.

Crossly, I retreat into my own flat, close the door, and pick up the phone. I speed-​dial the local wood-​fired pizza company and order my usual: a capricciosa and a bag of Kettle Chips. I pour myself a glass of wine out of the fridge, then head back into the sitting room and flick on the telly.

A workbox . What else does she think I should have? A pair of knitting needles? A loom? I sink down onto the sofa with the remote and flick through the TV channels, peering

vaguely at the images. News... a French film... some animal documentary...

Hang on. I stop flicking, drop the remote onto the sofa, and settle back on the cushions.

The Waltons. On some obscure syndicated channel. I have not seen The Waltons for years .

Ultimate comfort viewing. Just what I need.

On the screen the whole familys gathered round the table; Grandmas saying grace.

I take a swig of wine and feel myself start to unwind. Ive always secretly loved The Waltons , ever since I was a kid. I used to sit in the darkness when everyone else was out

and pretend I lived on Waltons Mountain too.

And now its the last scene of all, the one I always waited for: the Walton house in darkness. Lights twinkling; crickets chirping. John Boy talking in voice-​over. A whole huge houseful of people who love one another. I hug my knees and look wistfully at the screen as the familiar music tinkles to its close.

Good night,Elizabeth ! Good night, Grandma, I reply aloud. Its not like theres anyone to hear. Night, Mary Ellen! Good night, John Boy, I say in unison with Mary Ellen. Good night. Night. Night.

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 666