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his name again? ‘—your other half?’
    â€˜Oh, fine,’ replied Louise.
    Larkin thought he caught something, a ripple of disturbance pass over her face, but it was over so quickly he wasn’t sure.
    â€˜Still working hard?’ he asked.
    â€˜Oh yes. He’s area sales manager now,’ she answered with pride. Larkin remembered she put stock in such things.
    Larkin had no idea what he was actually area sales manager of, but from Louise’s tone felt he should. He skated over it. ‘Oh, good.’
    The conversation then ground to a dead halt. Larkin looked at his tea, willing it to cool down so he could drink it and leave.
    â€˜So,’ said Louise, equally grasping, ‘what brings you round here?’
    â€˜Work,’ replied Larkin, pleased at last to be on familiar territory. ‘I’m doing a job down the road in Coldwell. Profile. Actually, you know the guy.’
    Louise’s face suddenly tightened. ‘Who?’
    â€˜Old boyfriend of yours. Tony Woodhouse.’
    A glob of tea fell from Louise’s mug on to the patterned mustard-coloured rug. She ignored it. ‘Tony Woodhouse? You’ve spoken to him?’ A sudden, barked laugh. ‘Haven’t seen him in years.’
    â€˜Yeah?’ said Larkin. ‘That’s where I’ve been this afternoon.’ He noted her reaction then continued. ‘He asked after you, by the way.’
    â€˜What did he say?’ she asked too quickly.
    Larkin shrugged. ‘Just hello.’
    â€˜And that’s all?’
    â€˜Yea. I’ll be seeing him again, though, if you want me to pass on a message.’
    â€˜A message?’ Louise’s eyes darted around the room, as if checking for eavesdroppers. ‘No, no message. Well, hello. Just tell him I said hello back.’
    â€˜OK, then.’ Larkin said nothing. His tea had cooled. He began sipping it.
    She smiled, barked a sudden, hollow laugh. ‘Tony Woodhouse. Feels like yesterday I was with him. You were with Charlotte.’ She gasped. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t …’
    â€˜That’s OK. All done with now. All in the past.’
    She smiled. It was shaky. Then the subject changed, the small talk started up again. They were both grateful for it. They sketched in the blanks, filled in the years. Larkin kept his accounts deliberately oblique. Louise admitted she read his journalism, admired his angry, political pieces.
    â€˜It’s not my thing, as you know,’ she said, ‘but I was very proud of you.’ She smiled.
    Larkin returned it. ‘Thank you.’
    His mug now drained, it was time for him to leave. The meeting hadn’t been unpleasant, he thought, just awkward. Two people without much in common, talking as if they should. Louise seemed equally relieved that he was leaving.
    She walked down the hall with him, showing him to the door. As she opened it, a car – something sleek, shiny and Japanese – pulled up just behind the Saab, music pounding out loud enough to damage the subframe, crack the tarmac beneath. A girl emerged from the passenger side and headed for the house. Tall, attractive, carrying an air of experience her youth couldn’t match, a mesmeric swing in her hips. She had the teenage pout down to textbook perfection and the lips to carry it off. She looked, thought Larkin, just like Louise at that age.
    â€˜Oh, here’s Suzanne,’ said Louise with a cheeriness so sudden it had to be false. ‘Hello, Suzanne.’
    Suzanne swept into the house offering a grunted greeting but no eye contact to Louise.
    â€˜This is your uncle Stephen …’ Louise began, but Suzanne wasn’t listening. She swept up the stairs, ignoring him.
    â€˜Oh to be a teenager again,’ said Larkin, aiming for lightness.
    The car outside sped noisily away. From upstairs came a door slam and the sudden, rhythmic thump of garage.
    Louise gave a smile, but it