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lovely house in the countryside,” Max said. “A mansion, really. Almost a mansion. And the garden’s fantastic. Lisa has been designing that, but of course, no surprises there!” I wondered why it was no surprise, I wondered whether Lisa was famous for designing gardens, I supposed she might have been. It was the first time he’d mentioned Lisa, and I said I was glad they were still married.
    We shared anecdotes about our schooldays, some of the ones Max told me I had no memory of whatsoever, so they were quite fresh and exciting. I asked him how Lisa was, and he said she was well. I didn’t bring up Ian at all, and I felt a bit bad about that—but then, Max didn’t bring up Ian either, and the evening was mercifully free of dead children.
    I said I’d walk him back to his hotel.
    “You should come and stay,” he said to me as we walked the streets. He hung on to my arm. It was raining, and Max didn’t seem to notice, and I didn’t care. “Come and stay this weekend. It’d be lovely to see you properly. And I know Lisa would just love to have you.” Before I knew it he was all over me with practical details—the best train I could catch, that they’d pick me up from the station. I said I wasn’t available the next weekend, I was too busy—I wasn’t as it happens, but I still didn’t want him to think he could just swan his way back into my life and be instantly forgiven. I promised to come up the weekend after.
    Now, I am aware that I don’t come out of the following story too well. I can’t pretend I understand more than a fraction of what happened when I visited Max, so I’ll just tell it the best I can, warts and all. And I think you’ll accept that the circumstances were very strange, and perhaps, to an extent, extenuating.

    Max met me at the station in his car. I asked if it were a new car, and he smiled, and said it was. Then we drove to his house through the rolling countryside, and he talked about his new car all the way. He’d said that he lived somewhere conveniently situated for occasional commutes into London, but I’m glad I hadn’t got a taxi, as the drive was half an hour at least.
    Lisa was standing in the driveway to welcome us. I wondered how long she had been standing there. I had been concerned she might remember that I had often shown her a very slight resentment, but she gave no indication of it. She smiled widely enough when I got out of the car, she opened her arms a little in what might have been the beginnings of a hug. I didn’t risk it, I offered her my hand. She accepted the hand, laid hers in mine like it was a delicacy, gave a little curtsey, tittered. I still didn’t like her very much.
    I had to admit, she looked better than I’d expected. Some women grow into their faces, do you know what I mean? They just age well, their eyes take on a certain wisdom, maybe, they just look a bit more dignified. (Whereas I have never known that to be true of men—we just get older: flabbier or bonier, it’s never better.) I had always likened Lisa to a cow, and it wasn’t as if she had totally thrown that bovine quality off, but the fleshier parts of her face that I had once dismissed as pure farmyard now had a certain lustre. She was beautiful. There was a beauty to her. That’s what it was, and I was surprised to see it.
    At first I couldn’t see why Max had referred to his house as a mansion. It wasn’t especially grand at all—bigger than my house in the city, of course, but you’d expect that in the sticks. They showed me their kitchen, and the stone AGA that took up half of the space. They showed me the lounge, the too—big dining table, the too—big fireplace. I made the right sort of approving noises, and Max beamed with pride as if I were his favourite schoolmaster giving him a good report card.
    “Let me show John the garden!” said Lisa. “Quickly, before the light fades!” And she was excited, impatient.
    And now I understood why Max had used the word