‘They are a good outfit, Edie, they do pull off some marvellously fresh interpretations, but everyone complains about the way they behave and I know really distinguished people, if you’ll forgive the comparison, dear, who’ve been simply treated like dirt and it just isn’t right or reasonable that they can fill theatres the way they do after treating people like that, but the fact is they do and that’s why I put you up in the first place because it would have been such a step up for you, but there we are. Sorry, dear, sorry. But don’t take it personally. We’ll get you there, promise. You’re just about right now for one of Shakespeare’s mad old queens. Don’t you think?’

Yes, Edie thought, lying on Ben’s bed in the middle of a Thursday afternoon, still clasping the clean towels she’d been bringing upstairs to the airing cupboard when she had spied his bed through the open door of his room and been irresistibly drawn towards it, yes, mad certainly, and old any minute and why not a queen since being anything more realistic seemed to be, at the moment, out of the question? Why not point out, to the Royal Shakespeare Company, what they’d been missing in Edie Allen all these years and watch them throw crowns at her in an agony of remorseful recompense? Why not continue pretending that the world, as she knew it, hadn’t fallen to pieces and left her washed up somewhere alien and empty with no notion of how to proceed? Why not keep saying, as Russell kept saying, that this is a rite of passage that all mothers go through, and do not all go off their heads for ever in the process?

Edie shut her eyes. It would be luxurious, in a way, to be truly off her head, to be so much in another place mentally and emotionally that any requirement to behave conventionally was neither demanded nor expected. The difficulty for her was that she could see how much easier it would be for Russell, for herself even, if she could slide seamlessly from one stage to another, from something almost all-consuming to something still supportive but more detached, but the trouble was that these states of mind and heart did not seem to be a matter of will but more a matter of chance. There were women who could manage to be both kind and somehow still cool; and there were fierce women, women whose feelings tossed them about like corks in a storm. If you were fierce, Edie thought, you couldn’t fake cool. Nor could you think where on earth to put, let alone use up, all that energy.

She sat up, hugging the towels. Two towels, two adult-sized bath towels, which had washed over time from sage green to pale grey. Once there would have been five towels, plus swimming towels and – stop this, Edie said to herself, stop this nonsense, stop indulging yourself. She turned to look out of the window. The sun had come out, a light hard spring sun that only managed to show up just how dirty the glass was.

From downstairs, she heard the telephone ring. It was never plugged in, in her and Russell’s bedroom, unless the children were out late, and as they were no longer there to be out late, it remained unplugged. She sat where she was, her chin on the towels, listening to the cadences of Russell’s polite, easy answerphone message and then the same cadences saying something quite brief, like he’d be having a drink with someone after work or he’d be bringing something back for supper that had caught his fancy. He rang a lot now, little inconsequential messages about this or that, sometimes just to say he was thinking about her. Which was lovely of him, sweet, attentive, thoughtful. And which left her strangely, disconcertingly, guiltily unmoved.

She stood up. Vivien had said, in a rare moment of not needing to score a point, that Edie should just wait, that this was a kind of grief, and that griefs of all kinds were susceptible to time and that, even if time didn’t heal them, it made them possible to accommodate to.

‘Just wait,’ Vivien said, shouting into her mobile against traffic noise. ‘That’s what I’m doing, just waiting’.

‘What do I do,’ Edie said, ‘while I’m waiting?’

‘Be nice to Russell!’ Vivien shouted. ‘Try that, why don’t you?’

There was a pause and then Vivien said, ‘Why do you have to make such a drama out of it, Edie? People leave home all the time! They’re supposed to!’

Edie moved slowly out of Ben’s bedroom and across the landing to the airing cupboard. There was a trick to opening the door, a trick involving lifting the handle slightly as one pulled, while pulling slowly in order not to precipitate an avalanche of towels and duvet covers, which had been stacked, for twenty years now, on slatted shelves that were neither level nor deep enough. Holding a bulging pile back with one hand, Edie half threw the clean towels up towards a space near the top of the cupboard, shut the door hastily and leaned against it. Then she peeled herself gingerly away, waited for ten seconds to make sure the catch would hold, and went downstairs to the kitchen. She glanced at the telephone. There was something slightly pressured about being thought about by the wrong person. Sweet though it was, imaginative, loving, kind – Russell’s message could wait.


Russell decided he would go home early. He had been invited, with Edie, to the preview of a remake of a classic Hitchcock film, starring a hot new young Hollywood actor, who thought, as hot new young actors had probably thought since Sophocles, that they had invented bad behaviour as a statement of wild independence. Russell had not mentioned the preview to Edie simply because she had never liked Hitchcock much and because the number of invitations he now received each month was so great that it had bred, even in Russell, brought up to standards of meticulous courtesy in that terraced house in Hull, a correspondingly great casualness in both responding and attending. He dropped the invitation on Maeve’s desk.

She gave it the merest glance.

‘It’s a bit last-minute—’

‘Now, there’s grateful—’

‘I’d be grateful if I needed to be,’ Maeve said. ‘As well you know’. She looked up. ‘Why aren’t you going?’

Russell unhooked his jacket from the bamboo hatstand behind the door.

‘I’m away to my wife’.

Maeve stopped typing but didn’t look up.

‘Is she OK?’

‘To be truthful,’ Russell said, ‘not very’.

‘There’s no dress rehearsal for these stages of life—’

‘No’.

‘And no way that I can see of knowing how you’ll conduct yourself—’

‘No’.

Maeve began typing again.

‘How’s Rosa?’

‘Don’t know,’ Russell said.

‘Only asking. Pretty girl. Striking, even. And clever. Now, if Rosa was mine—’

‘Good night, Maeve,’ Russell said. He opened the door. ‘See you in the morning’.

She gave a tiny smile to her keyboard.

‘Enjoy your evening’.

Descending to the underground, Russell wondered when he had last attempted to travel not in the rush hour. At four in the afternoon, the underground was strangely easy and accessible, and the people using it looked altogether less driven and self-absorbed. He even found a seat, and extracted the books section of the previous weekend’s newspaper for a leisurely read about books he would never read himself only to discover that he couldn’t somehow concentrate. It wasn’t leaving work early that was troubling – although he couldn’t remember when he had last done that – nor even some residual nagging consciousness that he should be going to the preview because you never knew who else might be in the audience. It was Edie, really. However unresponsive she was being, however unhelpful both to herself and to him, however – well, exasperating was the word that came to mind – she was, one way and another, worrying to Russell. It was natural, perhaps, to feel the final departure of your youngest child as keenly as she felt Ben’s, but was it natural to go on feeling it so keenly, to sink so deeply into the effects of loss that you couldn’t see the point of, or colour in, anything else? And, equally, was it fair to have to restrain oneself from telling one’s wife that she was overreacting, on a daily basis, because one feared the inevitable subsequent explosion?

She hadn’t, it was perfectly obvious, made any effort for the Ibsen casting. She had only gone in the end because Russell and her agent had almost forced her to, and this in itself was worrying because, in the past, however busy, however preoccupied with family life, Edie had displayed an eagerness about every chance that came her way, a kind of optimistic determination that Russell had marvelled at, admired, especially in the face of so much inevitable rejection. She had even said every so often while yanking clothes out of the dryer or dumping mountains of groceries on the kitchen table, ‘Just think what it’ll be like when I can think about lines and not lavatory paper!’ And now that time had come, and she seemed utterly indifferent to it, indifferent indeed to almost everything except tending to this furious small flame of longing for Ben – metaphor for the children’s childhoods – to be back again.

Perhaps, Russell thought, it was just a matter of time. Perhaps – more disconcertingly – it was a kind of depression. Perhaps – more disconcertingly still – Edie had been so changed by all those years of nurture that she couldn’t now remember how it was to be just married, how it was to want to be still married. He shook his paper a little. So many books on the bestseller lists, on the review pages, were about love. Well, of course. In all its myriad forms. What else mattered, really? If it wasn’t for love, indeed, why was he sitting on an afternoon train going home to someone whose current unhappiness he would gladly have shouldered himself? The train pulled into his station and stopped with a jerk. Russell helped a pregnant black girl get herself and a buggy and a sleepy toddler dressed as Spider-Man off the train and on to the platform.