‘That’s okay. Dad had a fall and we’ve come to A&E.’

‘Ah,’ she said, like she had found the glasses she’d been looking for under the sofa cushion. She was so hard to faze or shock, and it was deeply reassuring. ‘Has he been seen yet?’

‘No, they’ve said they want to do some checks? But we’re not sure what checks.’

‘It will be a physical and blood pressure. They’ll be trying to work out if he fell and hit his head or if he had a mini-stroke and that was the reason for his fall.’

‘Okay.’

‘He’ll be out by tonight. And I’ll be round at the house first thing in the morning and we can talk it all through.’

‘Thank you, Gwen. We’ve decided we need some more help. We want to know our options for hiring a carer.’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘We can look at all the care agencies in your area and work out which one will be most suited for what you need.’

‘Great.’

‘Is everything all right between you and your mum?’ she asked.

‘It wasn’t,’ I said, looking up at Mum who was diligently reapplying concealer under her eyes. ‘It is now.’

‘Okay, that’s good,’ she said. ‘Do you know, Nina, I’ve been doing this job a long time and if there’s one thing I’ve learnt, it’s that when someone stands at the end of an aisle aged twenty-seven and says “in sickness and in health”, and they mean it with all their heart, no one specifically imagines this.’

‘You’re right,’ I said.

‘Take it easy on her.’

‘I will.’ Mum gestured that she wanted to speak to her. ‘I’m going to pass you on to Mum now. I’ll see you in the morning.’

When I returned to the cubicle, Dad was sitting up in the bed. His eyes were brighter.

‘How you doing?’ I asked, sitting by the side of the bed and passing a paper cup of water. ‘Bit better for having had a nap?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But how are you?’

‘I’m okay,’ I said, removing the lid of the cold, bitter coffee and taking a sip.

‘No, come on, tell me everything, I want to hear it all,’ he continued. ‘Because the last time I saw you, you were Peter Pan.’ I laughed. He looked surprised. Then he started laughing too – big, bellowing guffaws that turned into wheezes. Every time the laughter subsided, we’d catch each other’s eye and laugh some more. He laughed so much he did his hissing Muttley cackle through his teeth. I knew why I was laughing – because of the absurd mess we had all found ourselves in; a chaos we could have never predicted. And though he didn’t say it, I knew that’s why he was laughing too.

As I watched him surrender to the silly, untameable joy of hysterical giggles, I realized that while the future might strip him of his self, something mightier remained. His soul would always exist somewhere separate and safe. No one and nothing – no disease, no years of ageing – could take that away from him. His soul was indestructible.

‘Oh dear,’ he said, after our laughter had finally quietened. ‘You seem fretful. Why are you so fretful?’

‘Can I be honest?’

‘Yes, please do be honest.’

‘I’ve found everything really difficult recently. And I can’t work out if this is just a tricky period or whether this is what adulthood is now – disappointment and worry.’

‘What are you worried about?’

‘I’m worried I’m not going to live the life I always thought I’d have. I’m worried I have to come up with a new plan.’

‘There’s no point coming up with a plan,’ he said, shaking his head sternly. ‘Life is what happens …’

‘I know, I know,’ I said, acknowledging our favourite Lennon line – as glib as it was profound. ‘I know that clever women aren’t meant to worry about having a family. And I know I still have time. But I’m scared that if I don’t plan for it, it will never happen.’

He shrugged. ‘It might not ever happen.’

I found the starkness of this fact strangely comforting. No one had ever said it to me before. Everyone had always said, in one way or another, that I could have whatever I wanted.

‘Now look,’ he said, ‘you got a distinction for your grade seven violin exam.’

‘That’s right,’ I said, unsure of where this fact would take us.

‘You know you can’t pass grade seven in all this,’ he said, presenting me with one of his riddles with which I had become so familiar. I knew, if I thought for long enough, I could find the logic within it – I always did. ‘Listen to me: you will not be able to get a distinction with all of this,’ he said slowly. ‘And that’s half the experience. That means everything’s going right. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Dad,’ I said. ‘I understand.’

18

The doorbell rang at ten o’clock on a Friday night. It had been three weeks since I had last seen or heard from Max and, just like last time he disappeared, every time there was someone at the door, I would walk to it saying a silent incantation: Please be him. Please be him. Something terrible happened and he couldn’t get hold of me. But now he’s here. Please be him.

I opened the door to find Katherine. She was leaning against the wall and everything about her looked a little skew-whiff – slightly bloodshot eyes, stringy hair overdue a shampoo. She carried a blue corner-shop plastic bag in her hand.

‘Nina!’ she cried joyfully.

‘Hi,’ I said, unsure of whether she was here for confrontation or reconciliation. ‘Why are you in London?’

‘Seeing you! I miss you!’ she said, lunging towards me with open arms and pulling me in for a hug. She let herself in and walked up the stairs, the plastic bag swinging in her hand. ‘I had a free night without the kids and I thought: where do I want to go, who do I want to see? I want to get pissed with my best and oldest mate, that’s what I want to do.’ She was talking to herself, wittering aloud the way Olive did when she played with her toys. She was either in the midst of a breakdown, or spectacularly drunk. ‘Because how long has it been since I got pissed? Er: a hundred years, I think! And how long has it been since I’ve seen my best friend?’

‘About two months,’ I said humourlessly as I led her into the flat.

‘God, I bloody love this place!’ she said, flinging the plastic bag on the sofa, along with herself. I hadn’t seen Katherine like this in years – sloppy and enthusiastic about everything. It was rare she got drunk – she always liked to be in control of herself – it was even rarer she got this drunk.

‘Where’s your handbag?’ I asked.

‘Don’t need one, FUCK handbags! It’s like our whole lives we’re … carrying things? As women? You know? And we just don’t need to.’

‘Where are the kids?’

‘Ugh,’ she said, throwing her head back on the sofa. ‘With Mark.’

‘Is he … all right with them?’ I realized how ridiculous this question was as I asked it.

‘Of course he’s all right with them, he’s their fucking father, not their teenage brother. Although, you wouldn’t know it.’ She took two gin and tonics in a can out of the clanking plastic bag and threw one to me. She cracked the other one open and took a swig. ‘Do you know, when Olive was one – ONE – I had my first night away from home for a friend’s hen do. Mark was so nervous about being on his own with her, I had to write him this long bloody manual on how to operate his own bloody daughter, like she was a new iPhone. Anyway, I didn’t hear anything from him all night, I was so pleased it had gone well. The next day I find out he’d hired a babysitter.’

‘Did he go out?’

‘Nope. Just sat in the next room, watching A Question of Sport.’ She tipped her head back to drink more from the can and its contents spilt down her chin. She wiped it with the sleeve of her blouse without acknowledging her clumsiness. She sank further into the sofa and splayed her legs as far as her skin-tight jeans would allow. ‘Have you got any weed?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Let’s buy some! Let’s take some weed!’

‘Katherine, last time you and I “took” weed we both vomited. We’re not party girls and we never will be.’

‘Speak for yourself, maestro!’ she shouted. Maestro? ‘Right, we’re going out dancing.’ She stood up purposefully and walked out of the room. I didn’t know how to respond to any of this. She was clearly too drunk to talk about our friendship in any meaningful way, but I felt too unsettled by our argument to pretend we were fine and have a big night out together.

I followed her into my bedroom, where she was standing in front of my full-length mirror.

‘I hate all my fucking clothes,’ she said. ‘I look like a soon-to-be-retired school registrar all the fucking time. Can I borrow something of yours?’