She looked, with a kind of disgusted despair, at the outdated jar of black-truffle sauce in her hand. What had she been doing? Richie and the girls only ever ate ketchup. Who had it al been for?

‘Yikes,’ Amy said.

She stood in the kitchen doorway, an untidy sheaf of notes on A4 paper held against her with one arm, a mug in her other hand.

Chrissie put the jar down with a bang, beside a box of eggs and a smal irregular lump of something in a tired plastic wrapper.

‘We are eating everything I can salvage out of this, everything, before I buy one more slice of bread.’

Amy advanced to the table and surveyed everything on it. She put her mug down in the chaos and picked up the lump.

‘What’s this?’

‘Cheese?’

Amy gave a tentative squeeze.

‘Too squashy.’

‘Old cheese,’ Chrissie said.

Amy raised her arm and threw the lump in the direction of the bin.

‘Chuck.’

‘Don’t chuck anything,’ Chrissie said, ‘without showing me first.’

Amy glanced back at the table.

‘This is gross—’

‘Yes,’ Chrissie said, ‘I agree. It is gross. The possession of it, especial y in current circumstances, is gross. But we are not wasting it. We can’t.’

‘Maybe,’ Amy said unwisely, ‘when I get back, it’l al be gone.’

There was an abrupt and eloquent silence. Chrissie stood by the fridge, staring inside. Amy went across the kitchen, with as much insouciance as she could manage, and switched the kettle on.

Chrissie said, ‘Did you check it had water in it?’

Amy sighed. She switched the kettle off, put her papers down, carried the kettle to the sink, fil ed it, brought it back and switched it on again. Then she said, ‘It’s no good pretending I’m not going.’

Chrissie put a sliding pile of opened packets of delicatessen meats on the table.

‘No danger of that.’

Amy waited. She looked down at her notes. Spanish quotations, her favourites underlined in red. Revision was hateful, but Spanish was, al the same, a satisfactory language to declaim out loud.

‘She rang me,’ Chrissie said.

Amy went back to the table to find her mug.

‘Tea?’

‘Did you hear me?’

‘Yes. Tea?’

‘No, thank you,’ Chrissie said. ‘She rang me to tel me that I wasn’t to worry about your staying improperly in her son’s flat, because you won’t be, you’l be staying with her.’

Amy got a box of tea bags out of the cupboard.

‘She’s cal ed Margaret. He’s cal ed Scott.’

Chrissie was silent.

‘It’s nothing to do with her,’ Amy said.

‘She thinks it is.’

‘Wel ,’ Amy said, pouring boiling water into her mug, ‘don’t worry, anyway. I’l do what suits me.’

‘You may wel not have a choice. Just as I don’t seem to have.’

Amy carried her mug down the kitchen to the sink. She said, staring out into the neglected garden, ‘I’m not going for them, Mum. I told you. I’m going to see where Dad grew up, I’m going to see where half of me comes from.’

‘I know, Amy, I know it’s what you think wil —’

‘I don’t want to discuss it!’ Amy shouted. ‘I don’t want to talk about it any more! I’ve got an exam tomorrow, and one on Thursday, and then I’m free and I’m going to Newcastle, and nothing is going to change that!’

Chrissie folded her arms and stared at the ceiling.

‘Just be grateful,’ Amy said, angrily but less loudly, ‘just be thankful I’m not partying after, like everyone I know. Partying and talking to anyone and everyone.’

‘Talking? What’s wrong with that?’

‘Oh my God,’ Amy said witheringly. ‘Oh please. D’you real y think that party means party and talk means talk?’

Chrissie transferred her gaze to Amy’s face.

‘What does it mean then?’

Amy walked past her, carrying her mug of tea. In the doorway, she paused and said, with emphasis, ‘Kissing.’

Chrissie gave a little jump. Amy said dangerously, ‘So I’l be better off in Newcastle, don’t you think?’ and then the telephone rang. Amy waited, holding her quotations and her tea.

‘Hel o?’ Chrissie said and then, with a smile of sudden relief, ‘Mr Leverton. Mark. How—’

She paused, and then she turned her back on Amy as if the cal was private, and walked slowly down the kitchen, away from her.

Amy watched. Mr Leverton only ever meant bad news, surprises of an unexpected and upsetting kind. Why was Chrissie’s voice so warm, speaking to him, her body language so weirdly relieved, holding the phone as if it was a lifeline?

‘Oh,’ Chrissie said, her voice startled, but not displeased. ‘Oh. Wel , it’s real y kind—’

She stopped. Then, with her free hand, she untied the tapes of the plastic apron and pul ed it off over her head.

‘Of course I wil . Yes, I’l talk to them. I’l think—’

She dropped the apron over the nearest chair back.

‘I don’t want,’ she said, ‘you to think I’m ungrateful. I’m not. I’m real y grateful. It’s very kind—’

She stopped again and pul ed the band off her hair and shook it free.

‘Thank you,’ Chrissie said. ‘Thank you very much. Yes, I’l think about it. I’l get back to you. Thank you.’

She took the phone away from her ear and stood there, her back to Amy, staring down the kitchen.

Amy took a hot swal ow of tea, and coughed.

‘ What?’ Amy said.

Robbie had built Tamsin a clothes cupboard precisely to her specifications. It fil ed in the space between the chimney breast (defunct) in his bedroom and the outside wal of the building, and it was fitted with sliding shelves, hanging rails and ingenious shoe trees which occupied the floor space like a row of regimented lol ipops. Robbie, who preferred dark colours and matt surfaces, would have liked to paint it in a colour that blended with the brown-leather headboard of which he was so proud, but Tamsin wanted something more feminine, just as she wanted new fabrics which would ameliorate, rather than accentuate, the brown-leather headboard. The new clothes cupboard had, accordingly, been painted a pale peppermint green, and the door handles were smal glass globes patterned with raised green spots. On the bed, spread out, was a set of new curtains in white, with a delicate floral design in pink and cream with green leaves.

Tamsin said she was thril ed with the cupboard. She was standing in front of it, a hand holding either open door, admiring the automatic light, the pristine interior, the long mirror Robbie had fixed inside the right-hand door. He waited for a moment, watching her reaction, al owing himself to revel in having both satisfied himself and her, and then he moved behind her, put his arms around her waist, and tucked his chin into the angle of her neck.

‘No excuses now,’ Robbie said.

Tamsin stiffened, very slightly. She had been planning, in a sudden, abstract kind of way, where she might put her handbags.

‘What?’

‘You’ve got your cupboard,’ Robbie said. ‘You can move your stuff in. No reason not to.’

Tamsin put one hand up against his face, and then took it away again.

‘I love my cupboard.’

‘Good.’

‘It’s a real Sex and the City closet.’

‘Good.’

Tamsin put her hands on Robbie’s linked arms and freed herself.

‘I am going to—’

Robbie caught her arm.

‘When?’

‘Soon.’

Robbie let go of her, and sat on the edge of the bed.

‘Tam, you’ve said that for months. Months. Now your house is on the market, you’ve got your cupboard, you’re redesigning my life. What are you waiting for?’

Tamsin turned round. She looked out of the window, and then back at Robbie. She said, ‘Mum’s been offered a job.’

‘Great!’

Tamsin began to pul her hair tighter into its ponytail.

‘I don’t know.’

‘What don’t you know?’

‘It’s not a very good job—’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s a receptionist.’

Robbie waited a moment. He tried not to be distracted by the implications of having her standing there, in his bedroom, in front of the cupboard he had designed and made for her.

He said, ‘But you’re a receptionist.’

‘Yes,’ Tamsin said.

‘But—’

‘What would Dad think?’ Tamsin said. ‘What would Dad think to have Mum working for less than she’s worth, as a receptionist?’

Robbie thought. His memory of Richie was of a genial, hospitable man who lived for his girls and his particular kind of music. His mother had been a fan of Richie Rossiter, and that had meant he was pretty daunted when he first went round to meet him. But in the flesh, Richie wasn’t daunting. Richie was easy, unaffected and friendly. He was, if Robbie had to admit it, one of the least snobbish people Robbie had ever met, and a great deal less snobbish than his own parents, who stil took an embarrassing pride in the fact that he went to work in a suit.

‘It’s a chain-store suit,’ he’d say to his mother. ‘It’s not exactly Savile Row.’

‘I think,’ he said now to Tamsin, ‘that he wouldn’t give a toss.’

Tamsin folded her arms. Then she unfolded them and smoothed down her immaculate cotton sweater.

‘What?’ Robbie said.

Tamsin shook her head mutely.

‘It may not be worth much,’ Robbie said, ‘but with you here, and Dil y working, it’s better money than nothing. Isn’t it?’

‘Maybe,’ Tamsin said.

‘Don’t you want her to work?’

‘Yes—’

‘Tamsin?’

‘What—’

‘Don’t you want her to do what you do?’

‘It upsets things,’ Tamsin said. ‘It doesn’t feel right.’

Robbie reached out and took her nearest hand. He adopted the tone his father used when his mother was being unreasonable, an affectionate but slightly teasing tone.