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Tony’s face was smiling, but his eyes were serious.
    Larkin sighed. ‘All right, then.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll start training this week.’
    â€˜That’s what I like to hear.’
    Larkin took that as his cue to leave. They agreed a time for Larkin to be there the following day. He turned to go.
    â€˜If you see Louise,’ said Tony, his smile edged with sadness, ‘tell her I said hello.’
    â€˜I will.’
    Larkin left.
    Driving back through Whitley Bay, Larkin, thinking over his meeting with Tony, was gripped by a sudden impulse. He pulled the Saab off the main road. He was going to visit his sister.
    Behind the links and deserted beaches of the run-down seafront of Whitley Bay was a warren of solid, middle-class semis. It was into this maze that Larkin drove.
    He and Louise had never been close; beyond their biology they had little in common. As far as Larkin knew, all Louise had wanted was her husband, her kids and her semi beside the sea. He had wanted different things from life. He hadn’t thought of her for ages. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen her.
    The house was cut from the same 1930s semi blueprint as the others in the street. They all looked identical; even the small attempts at individuality, such as replacement windows or different-coloured garage doors, seemed uniform. There was an air of comfortable achievement about the street, as if driving a Mondeo and reading the Daily Mail were hard-fought-for rights.
    Larkin pulled the Saab up in front of number 52, got out, rang the bell before he changed his mind. In the drive was a year-old Ka. Figures, thought Larkin.
    The door was opened by a woman a couple of years younger than Larkin but not yet looking her age. Her once-long hair had been cut short but was still dark, perhaps even darker than it used to be, thought Larkin. She had put on weight since the last time he had seen her, but it wasn’t much and she carried it well; not fat, just rounded out. She was dressed simply in faded jeans, trainers and a T-shirt, her make-up light and strategically positioned. A middle-class wife and mum who still made time for herself. She looked good.
    â€˜Hello, Louise,’ said Larkin.
    Her jaw actually dropped. ‘My God …’
    â€˜How you doing?’ Larkin smiled. ‘I was just passing, thought I’d drop in.’
    She opened the door wide. ‘Come in.’
    Larkin followed her in. The hallway was neat, airy and tasteful.
    â€˜Come through.’
    Louise led him to the front room, sat him down on a beige Jacquard sofa. She asked if he wanted tea. He did, so she disappeared into the kitchen. He looked around the room. Again neat, airy and tasteful. A touch of classical here, a dash of ethnic there. Nothing forceful or overpowering. Louise soon emerged bearing a tray holding mugs, milk, sugar and biscuits and set it down on the middle table of a nest of three. Larkin picked up his mug. Louise sat in a chair, did likewise. They looked at each other, smiled, felt the gap between them larger than physical space, sought for polite ways to bridge it.
    â€˜So … how are you, then?’ she asked.
    â€˜Fine,’ replied Larkin. ‘Still working. Still freelance.’
    â€˜Still at the same address?’
    He told her about the move. ‘I’ll give you my new address. How about you, what are you up to?’
    Louise was working part-time in a call centre which brought in a little extra, gave her something to do and allowed her to be home in time to cook the tea. He enquired about the kids. Ben was fourteen and doing very well at school, Suzanne was fifteen and would soon be sitting her GCSEs.
    Larkin smiled. ‘Good …’ He was drying up. They had never had much in common, but this wasn’t just small talk, it was practically microscopic. He imagined Louise was finding it equally painful and awkward.
    â€˜So how’s—’ fuck, what was