He doesn’t ask how my evening was, or what’s going on with my family, or anything else, and I’m not sad about this, I’m glad. He walks towards the door, takes out his phone and starts texting. I fol ow him, and he stops and says, ‘I’l see you soon, yeah?’

‘Yeah,’ I say. I reach out to pat his back. But I don’t. I stop. ‘Bye,’ I say. ‘And Oli – I think it’s best if you arrange when you’re coming round in advance next time,’ I add.

‘Oh,’ he says, turning round in the doorway, his satchel over his shoulder. He puts the phone away. ‘Wel , I might need some stuff next week, yeah?’

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Just – cal . Let me know.’

‘Sure,’ Oli says. He steps forward to kiss me, but I step back. ‘So I’l see you then, then.’

Another week of waiting for him to cal , wishing he’d come round, wondering if we should sleep together or not. I know he won’t think about it like that. I know he’l just pitch up and try it on if it’s possible, not if it isn’t. I say, ‘Wednesday’s good for me. Come then. We should talk some more about what to do. About the flat. We should get an estate agent in, to value it.’ I want to mention the solicitor I’ve emailed about the divorce, but it doesn’t seem right, not when I can see the bed over his shoulder where we just had sex. But I wil , next week. I’l make a list, and put that on it.

1. Estate agent to value flat for rental/sales too.

2. Email lawyer about setting divorce in motion.

3. Tell Oli about it next Wednesday.

‘You think we should? Start doing that now?’

‘Yes, Oli,’ I say simply. ‘I need to sort out the money side of things, otherwise I’l be declared bankrupt. You’re best off out of it.’ I rol my eyes mock-seriously.

‘OK, fine.’ He takes my hand. ‘Bye, Natasha. Have a great day. I’m sorry for being a shit.’

The door shuts and I stare at it, listening to his footsteps on the stairs, blinking with surprise and looking round the flat, as though it was al just another dream, something I invented. But it wasn’t.

Cathy and I are meeting at the place with the thin pizzas on Dray Walk. I leave the flat a little early, at twelve, and pop into Eastside Books to buy myself a new Barbara Pym, after which I walk up the lane past the Truman Brewery. It’s quiet round here in contrast to Sunday when al the markets are out, the vintage clothes, food stal s and the stal s sel ing cheap cotton plimsol s and huge packs of batteries. (It’s a sign that Brick Lane is going too far upmarket, in my opinion, that you can take your pick of stal s to buy beautiful y branded Brazilian churros doughnuts, organic apple and pear juices and hugely expensive chai teas, but you can’t get hold of a simple onion.) As I am about to turn into the studenty chaos of Dray Walk my phone rings. It is a number I don’t recognise, and I am just debating whether to answer or not when I touch my screen by mistake and a tinny, vaguely familiar voice says, ‘Hel o?’

‘Hel o,’ I say slowly.

‘Natasha? Hel o. It’s Guy.’

‘Guy?’ I struggle for a moment. ‘Guy – oh, hel o,’ I say. My hand is on the door of the bookshop. ‘The Bowler Hat’s brother.’

‘Yes, that I am,’ he says, sounding faintly amused. ‘Listen, did you get the invitation?’

‘The invitation?’ My mind is blank. ‘To the launch of your grandmother’s foundation.’

‘Oh, of course . . .’ I’m embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry, I haven’t done anything about it – I’ve been – busy,’ I say. ‘It’s been—’

‘Don’t apologise.’ He sounds unruffled, as ever. ‘I know you’ve been having a rough time of it.’ His voice is kind. ‘Look, I almost cal ed again to say don’t worry about the foundation if things are hectic for you. I know they are. In fact, I even tried to text you. But I’m not much cop at texting, so that rather fel by the wayside.’

‘It’s a skil , texting,’ I say. ‘One I don’t have. Like so many things these days. I despair, when I think what a forward-thinking young man I prided myself on being, and how I despised the older generation for being so complacent. Now I’m the old duffer who got an iPod for Christmas and can’t work out where the on button is, let alone the rest of it. The iTunes, and so on.’

‘Oh dear,’ I say. ‘Can’t someone help you with it?’

‘Wel , my daughter would, but she’s gone back to university. That’s my youngest daughter.’

‘Right.’ I didn’t know you had any daughters, I want to say. And, Why are you cal ing?

There’s a silence, and Guy suddenly stops, as if he’s remembering himself. ‘Anyway, Natasha, look, I wasn’t ringing to get you to explain my mobile phone to me. I was ringing to find out where you are this afternoon? I have something I’d like to talk to you about, and I’m not far from East London – I seem to remember that’s where you live.’

‘Oh.’ I’m flummoxed. ‘Sure. I’m off Brick Lane – but where are you?’

‘I’m in Islington,’ he says. ‘I am the antiques servant of the left-wing middle classes. Can I come and see you now?’

‘I’m just on my way to lunch,’ I say. ‘Why don’t I come and see you, are you around this afternoon?’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Yes, I am. That would be a great pleasure. It is quite important we talk. Thank you.’

He gives me the address – in fact I remember I have his card already, he gave it to me at the funeral. I ring off just as I arrive at the pizza place.

‘Darling!’ Cathy throws her arms around me, her head on my bosom. She has my arms in a straitjacket; I release myself gently from her grasp.

‘How’s tricks?’ I say. ‘Great, great, great,’ Cathy says, pul ing out a stool for me to sit on. ‘I lost two pounds last week, and I finished A Suitable Boy. Not the same thing! Hahaha!’ She slaps her thigh as if she’s Robin Hood. ‘And Jonathan – wel , I’m definitely sure he’s not gay, even though he did this thing last night when he . . .’ She stops. ‘Forget it. Let’s get to that later. How about you? How’s your tricks?’

‘Weird,’ I say, pul ing the menu towards me. ‘Bloody weird.’

Chapter Thirty-Six

Guy’s shop is like something out of a fairytale. Just off the increasingly corporate Upper Street is Cross Street, a higgedlypiggedly smal road of shops, and Guy Leighton Antiques is halfway down. It is painted a kind of dove-grey, and in the pretty bow window is a Rococo mirror, an old teddy bear sitting on a smal wicker chair, and a heavy crystal engraved vase with a single dusky rose in it. I stare at the window, longingly. I want everything in it.

When I push open the door, an old bel jangles in a pleasing way. Inside, it’s empty and silent. The distressed white floorboards glow in the late-afternoon light, and as I look around, wondering what I should do next, I hear a voice say, ‘Hel o? Natasha?’ From a back room Guy emerges, pushing a pair of half-moon spectacles off his nose. They hang on a chain around his neck. He blinks, rather blearily.

‘I’m not early, am I?’ I seem to have caught him unawares. ‘Sorry,’ he says, looking embarrassed. ‘I was having a nap.’

‘Oh.’

‘Quite nice in the afternoons, when it’s quiet, you know. Put the radio on and have a doze – there’s an original Eames chair out back I can’t bear to part with, it’s too comfortable.’ He catches himself. ‘Good grief. I sound like I’m ready for the old people’s home.’

This reminds me of something. ‘That’s funny. I literal y just left a message at the home for Arvind on my way here,’ I say, more to myself than to him. ‘He was out for the afternoon, they said. Do you know, is Louisa down there?’

‘Yes, she is. She went down yesterday.’

Archie was going to see him around now, too. I’m not even sure Mum’s been down since the funeral. ‘On her own?’

He misunderstands me. ‘Oh, yes. My brother likes an easy life.’ He smiles, rather sadly I think. I think of the indolent, good-looking Bowler Hat, so often to be found sleeping in an armchair or deckchair while Louisa brings him tea. I frown at the thought. ‘She’s a kind soul, Louisa, she loves to help.’ He scratches his chest and yawns. ‘She loved your grandmother, Natasha, Frances was like a mother to her. They were very close.’

‘Louisa had her own mother,’ I say. ‘Yes . . .’ Guy’s expression is non-committal. ‘But I think Louisa loved it down there, and she wasn’t a threat to your grandmother. Never was. Frances adored her, and she didn’t have to raise her. And – wel , Louisa just likes doing things for other people.’

‘I know.’ Fond as I am of her, I can’t help rol ing my eyes at this.

Guy ignores my expression. ‘Now, this is unpardonable, not offering you anything. Can I get you a drink, some coffee? Maybe some whisky?

It’s very cold outside.’

‘Tea would be great if you have it,’ I say. ‘Just PG or anything.’

‘No problem,’ says Guy, motioning me to come through to the back room with him.

The office is a smal , chaotic space, overflowing with papers and books, some old and clearly antiques, others dog-eared paperbacks.

There’s a pile of old Dick Francis novels by the side of the worn Eames chair. Two dirty coffee cups sit on the floor and a fan heater purrs amiably beside them. There’s a worn footstool, too, upon which lies a sleeping cat, also purring.

Guy pushes the cat off. ‘That’s Thomasina,’ he says. ‘Stupid thing. We thought she was a boy for ages, cal ed her Thomas, and then she suddenly produces kittens, three of them.’ The cat straightens herself languidly and glides away.

It looks as if nothing’s been changed for years. Everything in this shop is slow; the warmth is soporific, as is the smel of old, musty things, the rumbling sound of the heater. It is getting dark outside, and I wish I could just curl up in the chair and sleep.

‘It looks very cosy here,’ I say. ‘Must be nice, if you’re having a quiet day, to come in here and relax.’