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house for Mother when Dad died, and Robin would never sell anything which has the slightest connection with Jack.
    Robin adored Jack. I mean truly. It made me laugh, because usually she was utterly resistant to my friends and my way of life. Usually, when she met one of my men you could see her thinking, Oh yeah – another flashy talent, another narcissist, all mouth and image but no substance. Robin was into substance. She was always looking for someone I could settle down with. She never accepted that settling down was her thing, not mine.
    So when she met Jack, who was as flashy a talent as ever lived, it amused the hell out of me to watch her succumb. She could have curled up like a little mouse and existed, completely happy, in his pocket. And she wouldn’t have minded if he failed to notice her, or forgot she was there. Which was just as well, because Jack, true to form, hardly noticed her at all.
    There are Marys and there are Marthas. Some men go for one, some for the other. Jack was a Mary-man if ever there was one. He didn’t even see Marthas.
    And if you are looking for male equivalents to Mary and Martha you might find Icarus and Sisyphus. Robin was looking for Sisyphus. She respected constancy and consistency. Substance. But she was enchanted by Icarus – the high flier with unreliable wings who got burned.
    She married a Sisyphus and he left her, ten years later, for a younger Martha. He left her with two small kids and a barmy mother. So much for substance. That’s what happens when you give yourself up to love and family.
    I never give myself up for anything. But it’s very useful to have a sister who does.
    I didn’t eat her chocolate chip cookies. Once you start on Robin’s baking you can’t stop – and I don’t want to look like her. She isn’t fat, exactly, but she’s soft and mumsy. No one would stop and wonder who the hell
she
was at the Café D’Arte.
    â€˜What’re you doing in town?’ she asked.
    â€˜Bit of this, bit of that,’ I said. ‘Remember that creep Barry?’
    â€˜You’re not seeing
him,
are you? Oh Lin, he’s a thief.’
    â€˜Well, yes, sort of. He’s still after memorabilia. And, Robin, I need the money.’
    â€˜No!’ she said. ‘You can’t let him have
anything.’
    â€˜I won’t if I can possibly help it. But it made me think.’
    â€˜What?’ she said. ‘You can’t stop protecting Jack.’
    â€˜Jack’s past protection.’
    â€˜No! He isn’t. That bastard wants to turn him into Elvis.’
    Poor Robin. She cares so deeply about someone who’s long, long gone.
    I say, ‘But what am I going to do? It’s a mean old world out there. Am I supposed to guard the flame for the rest of my life? You can’t eat flames.’
    â€˜Lin, Lin, ssh,’ she says. ‘Here, drink your coffee. What’s happened? Tell me.’
    She’s so soft. This won’t take long.
    â€˜Nothing,’ I say. ‘Nothing new. Just people hassling me. I’m supposed to be writing but they’re messing with my head.’
    I allow her to comfort me because that’s how she comforts herself. Then I say, ‘I wish I had something solid: a job to go to; someone to tell me what to do.’ This is precisely what she wants to hear because it’s what she thinks herself.
    She says, ‘Stay here, Lin. I’ll keep everyone off your back while you sort yourself out.’
    â€˜But people know you’re my sister. They’ll call here.’
    â€˜They do anyway,’ she says. ‘There’s a pile of mail for you in the hall cupboard. I’ll just keep on saying what I always say: I haven’t heard from you, I don’t know where you are.’
    I say, ‘Robin, you’re too sweet. I can’t ask you to do that. These are real hassles – I’ve maxxed out on my credit card and I’ve