Al the same, it was nice to be treated as valuable. It was nice to have the attention she paid to hair and clothes obviously appreciated. It was nice to know that, as far as representing the firm was concerned, she was giving a good impression. Al these reassurances were contributing to Tamsin’s sense that, amidst al the family grief and insecurity and anxiety, she was emerging as the one member of the family who could be relied on to think straight even in the midst of emotional turmoil. And so, returning home one evening from work, and walking into the empty kitchen to find Amy’s phone jerking its little jewel ed dolphin about and ringing, unattended, on the kitchen table, Tamsin did not hesitate to pick it up and, after a cursory glance revealed an unfamiliar number on the screen, say crisply into it, ‘Amy’s phone.’

There was silence at the other end.

‘Hel o?’ Tamsin said, stil using her office inflection. ‘Hel o? This is Amy’s phone.’

She waited another second or two and then a voice, a man’s voice with a distinct North-East accent, said, ‘It’s Scott here. I was hoping to speak to Amy.’

‘Scott!’ Tamsin said in her normal voice.

‘Yes—’

‘Why are you ringing? Why are you ringing Amy?’

‘Because,’ Scott said, ‘she’s the only one I’ve spoken to.’

‘When?’

‘When what—’

‘When,’ Tamsin demanded, ‘did you speak to her?’

‘Look,’ Scott said, more bel igerently, ‘I’m not bothering her. And I’m not saying anything that might get her into trouble. I rang her because we’ve spoken and I’ve got her number. Who are you, anyway?’

‘Tamsin,’ Tamsin said frostily.

‘Ah Tamsin.’

‘And what did you want to say to Amy?’

There was a sigh the other end of the line.

‘I didn’t want to say anything to Amy. In particular. I just wanted to ask one of you something, and Amy was the one I’d spoken to.’

Tamsin found she was standing at her ful height, as if she was in court, giving evidence.

‘What did you want to ask?’

‘Wel ,’ Scott said, ‘I want to ask when it would be convenient to col ect the piano.’

‘ What?’

‘When would it be—’

‘I heard you!’ Tamsin shrieked.

There was a scuffle behind her. Amy appeared, holding out her hand for the phone.

‘Gimme—’

‘How dare you,’ Tamsin said to Scott. ‘Have you got absolutely no sensitivity? How—’

‘Give me that!’ Amy said, trying to reach her phone. ‘What are you doing on my phone? I’d only gone to the loo. Give it—’

‘Take it,’ Tamsin said furiously. She flung it across the table, where it skidded to the far side and fel down beside the radiator. Amy darted after it.

‘Who is it?’

‘That man,’ Tamsin said between clenched teeth. ‘That man. From Newcastle—’

Amy was under the table. Tamsin bent down so that she could see her.

‘What’s he doing, ringing you? What’ve you been up to?’

Amy retrieved her phone and held it to her ear.

‘Hel o? Are you stil there?’

‘Are you OK?’ Scott said. ‘Is that Amy?’

‘I’m fine,’ Amy said. ‘I’m under the kitchen table.’

Tamsin straightened up. She thumped hard on the table above Amy’s head.

‘What was that?’ Scott said.

‘My sister—’

‘Don’t talk to him!’ Tamsin shouted. ‘Don’t have anything to do with him!’

Amy took the phone away from her ear. She shouted back, ‘We’re not al witches like you!’ and then she said to Scott, ‘Why are you ringing?’

‘Sorry if it’s not very tactful,’ Scott said, ‘but I was wondering when it’d be OK to col ect the piano.’

‘Oh.’

‘Have I rung at a bad time?’

‘It’s al pretty bad just now.’

‘Look, forget it. Sorry. Leave it. I’l ring another time. In a few weeks. It was just my mam—’ He stopped.

Amy watched Tamsin’s legs move very slowly towards the door.

Scott said, ‘Are you real y OK?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you stil under the table?’

‘Yes.’

‘Look,’ Scott said, ‘I’l ring off now. You’ve got my number. You ring me when things have calmed down a bit.’

Amy said, clearly so that Tamsin could hear, ‘It’s your piano, you know.’

Tamsin’s legs stopped moving.

‘No hurry,’ Scott said. ‘I’l leave it to you. OK? You ring me when you can.’

‘Cheers,’ Amy said. She clicked the cal to end. Then she sat crouched and stil under the table.

Tamsin came back and bent down again.

‘What are you playing at, you disloyal little beast?’

‘Nothing,’ Amy said.

‘I heard you,’ Tamsin said, ‘I heard you. Talking to him al nice as pie. I heard you.’

‘He said to leave it. He said he didn’t mean to upset anyone. He said he’d leave it til we’re ready.’

‘We’l never be ready.’

‘We’ve got to be,’ Amy said. ‘We’ve got to, one day. It’s their piano.’

Tamsin straightened up again.

‘Come out of there.’

Amy crawled slowly out from under the table, and stood up. She was wearing a green sweatshirt and cut-off jeans, since her school did not require uniform in the sixth form.

‘You wait,’ Tamsin said. ‘You just wait until Mum hears about this.’

Amy raised her chin, just a little.

‘OK,’ she said.

Donna, having left Scott in bed that morning with what she felt was admirable sophistication, found that she couldn’t concentrate at work. It seemed that the price of being mature enough to leave a sleeping lover without a word of affection from him was that the maturity was only temporary, and the need to be reassured came back later, in double measure, as a result of being initial y repressed. So, after two hours of fiddling about pointlessly at her computer, Donna made a plausible excuse to her nearest col eague, and headed for what she hoped would be the reward for her early-morning restraint.

Scott shared a room at work with two others. The room was at the back of the building – only the senior partners’ and the boardroom looked out on the river – and they needed to have the lights on, even in summer, on account of the new building behind it being constructed so close that Scott and his col eagues could see if the people working across the way were playing games on their computers. They had been provided with blinds, heavy vertical panels of translucent plastic, but by tacit agreement the three of them found it more amusing to have the blinds at their widest setting, giving a clear view into the opposite office. In any case, there were some good-looking girls in the opposite office, and, for Scott’s gay col eague, Henry, there was a particular guy, who, Henry knew, just knew, was aware of being watched and liked it.

When Donna came into the office, it was empty. She had checked that both Henry and Adrian were at the Law Courts that morning, and she had reckoned on finding Scott alone. She had spent ten minutes in front of the mirror in the Ladies on her floor, and was planning to breeze in, kiss Scott’s cheek, wink, say something like, ‘Just fabulous,’ and then swing out again, leaving a seductive and tantalizing breath of Trésor on the air, which would drive him to seek her out later in the day and hint that she might like to cook him supper.

But Scott’s chair was empty. His jacket was not even on the back of it. But his screen was on, and his mobile – not one she recognized – was lying in the chaos of papers across his desk. There was also a tal takeaway cup – cold, when she touched it – and a half-eaten Snickers bar, the wrapper peeled roughly back like a banana skin. Donna sat down in his chair. The document on his screen showed a series of mathematical calculations, one column entirely in red, and was no doubt something to do with one of the VAT cases in which he was becoming something of a specialist. If Scott had taken his jacket, he’d gone to do more than have a pee, but if he hadn’t taken his phone then he hadn’t left the building.

Donna sighed. If he came back and found her in his chair, he would be able to assume the initiative in any future development between them, and that was absolutely not what Donna wanted. From past experience, Donna knew that, if Scott had the initiative, he just left it lying about without using it until it ran out of its vital initial energy, and simply expired. She lifted one leg and flexed her foot. What a waste of spending al morning in four-inch heels it might turn out to be.

On the desk in front of her, Scott’s phone beeped twice and jerked itself sideways. Donna leaned forward so that she could see the screen.

‘One message received’, the screen said.

Donna hesitated. She glanced at the doorway. Then she stretched her arm out and touched Select.

‘Amy’, said the message box.

Donna uncrossed her legs and sat straighter. She touched again.

‘Sorry about that,’ Amy had written.

Donna peered at the screen. That was al there was. ‘Sorry about that.’ No signing off, no x’s, no initial. She scrol ed down. Nothing but a mobile number and the time of the message. Sorry about what? Donna put the phone down. She stood up. She felt, abruptly, sick and angry and guilty. She also felt consumed by disappointment, waves of it, rol ing and crashing over her in just the way they had when Scott had told her that she was a fantastic fuck but that didn’t mean he loved her, because he didn’t.

She walked – with difficulty, her knees seeming to have locked rigid with shock – to the window. Ten feet and two windows away, a girl in a short skirt and knee boots was perched on the edge of a man’s desk, and he was leaning back in his chair with his fingers interlaced behind his head, and they clearly were not talking about the cost of insurance of cars with two-litre engines. Donna felt hot tears spring up and flood her eyes. She swal owed hard and tossed her hair back. No crying, she told herself. No crying and no softness over what her Irish father would have cal ed feckin’