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birth and Lily entered a world where she had a godmother who was closer than a blood relative, and a surrogate father who was better than the real one would have been.
    As for my own biological clock, well, either I’m hard of hearing or it had stopped before it started. For as long as I can remember I have had no wish to have a child. Nothing personal, just a healthy form of self-absorption that allows for no competition. In fact, for years I didn’t even think much of the idea of having a man—well, not in any serious way. As far as I’m concerned this was less to do with emotional damage than with the pleasure of my own company and the need for the toilet seat to be in the right place when I came to use it. There is a theory, of course, that children who lose their family early in life are frightened to make one of their own for fear of further loss. There is, however, another theory that says more or less the opposite. For myself, I have no time for theories, life being complicated enough without them. Whatever the reason, the lovers I specialized in were mostly short-term leases (Amsterdam was particularly good for this), boys on the move with passports stuffed with visas. If it lasted a month it was too long, after which they would set off for somewhere else and I would return to my old ways, happy in my aloneness.
    In essence René has done nothing to disturb that, though in age and work he is at least my equal. The first time we met was before Lily was born. He was in town for a conference and we spent the night in his hotel, during which it did occur to me that I might be using him to compensate: a last-ditch attempt to get my own womb full to join hers. But when we got down to it, it didn’t feel like that at all. Later when he put his head on my stomach to rest for a moment, I asked him if he could make out the sound of anything ticking in there, but only because I was absolutely certain there was nothing to hear. The next morning I cycled into work reveling in how beautiful the city was, and how much I loved my singular self within it.
    I didn’t see him again for six years. Then four months ago I picked up the phone to find him at the other end. He was living in Amsterdam now and wondered if I was free. So we picked up from where we left off: occasional sex, conversation, and a mutual need to lead separate lives. He spends much of his time traveling (aid consultancy is a mobile business), while work, Lily, and the need for my own space keep me occupied, too. If we tried to get any closer I suspect we would end up further apart. I count it as one of the success stories of my life. I also like its symmetry. So now Anna and I both have alternative families. I think the world needs more of them.
    I turned my attention to her desk.

Away—Thursday P.M.
    H IS CAR WAS astonishingly clean and sweet-smelling: no sweets wrappers, no sticky fingerprints, no split-open tape boxes, no bits of broken plastic from McDonald’s toys, none of the detritus that came from small fingers and a rushed lifestyle. Instead there were wiped surfaces, shiny footmats, and a small paper tree swinging from the mirror, giving off a faint tang of chemical pine. Behind the driving seat there was even a coat hook for his jacket. A man without children, that was Anna’s first thought.
    He pulled away from the curb. Someone honked him. He flattened his hand on the horn back, then apologized. “I am a very safe driver, don’t worry. We are maybe one hour away from the airport, though there will be worse traffic now because of this.”
    On their left they passed the market stalls. Scarves, posters, wallets, T-shirts. No horses. He glanced at her. “You must be angry, yes? First no horses, then no train. The Africans are usually here. I don’t understand why they are not.”
    â€œIt’s all right,” she said, letting her head fall back against the headrest. “It’s more