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is enough.’
    Lottie switched off the phone. The result of doing something so positive, so rude, still gave her a sense of shock. It was Milo who had advised her to do it having listened to so many phone calls descending into arguments and protests and irritation.
    â€˜It’s the only way to deal with Sara,’ he’d said. ‘She’ll always have the last word and leave you feeling thoroughly miserable. Try it!’
    He was right; it worked remarkably well, and Sara never commented on it, but it still left Lottie feeling equivocal.
    Matt came in. He stood for a moment, eyebrows raised, and she smiled ruefully at him.
    â€˜Sara,’ she said. ‘Bad news, actually. She says that Nick and Alice are having a few marital problems.’
    â€˜I’m sorry to hear that. Did she say why?’
    â€˜No, not really. It was just to warn us in case Nick phoned. Have you seen anything of them lately?’
    â€˜Not very lately. They enjoy the occasional literary party, and they just adored the film premiere, of course, and I get invited to dinner now and then. They’re always so busy, both working so hard, and the children have amazing social lives given that they’re barely out of nursery school.’
    â€˜Perhaps it’s just the pressure of work and it will all blow over. A funny five minutes in a marriage, as Milo’s mother used to say. What have you got there?’
    He was holding a large brown envelope, folded in half, and now he stepped forward and put a photograph on the table between them.
    â€˜First of all, I thought you might like to see this one.’ He pushed the photograph towards her and she picked it up.
Her own face smiled back at her, Tom beside her, laughing. He had his arm casually about her shoulder and their eyes were screwed up against the sun.
    â€˜Oh,’ she said. ‘Oh,’ and then pulled herself together. Matt was watching her, half smiling, as if he understood. But how could he? ‘I remember this,’ she said, making a great effort. ‘We’d made an offer for his book and I’d taken him out to lunch to discuss it. It was so exciting. We were such a tiny publishing house, mostly academic stuff; a few poets. Tom was a very successful journalist and I was so thrilled to meet him and to be publishing Leopoldville . He persuaded me to go back with him to meet Helen. It was just after you’d all come back from Afghanistan in the seventies and she was rather down. Post-natal depression after Imogen’s birth. He hoped that the publication of the book would cheer her up.’
    â€˜And did it?’
    Lottie hesitated. ‘Not really. Not in the long term. Though we had a lovely afternoon together. It was Helen that took the photograph.’
    â€˜I wondered if you’d like it. Unless you’ve got a copy?’
    â€˜No.’ She still held it, studying it. She could recall the heat of the sun on her head, the scent of lilac in the garden – and the light pressure of Tom’s arm across her shoulder. Someone in a nearby house had been playing the piano: Chopin’s sonata in B minor, the phrases drifting from the open window. Always, since that afternoon, it had reminded her of Tom.
    Remembering, Lottie’s heart contracted with pain. ‘I’d like it very much. Thanks, Matt.’
    â€˜It was in Mum’s rosewood box. And then there are these.’ He tipped out the contents of the packet and the photographs
slid fanwise on to the table. She bent over them. ‘Do you see anything odd?’
    She shuffled through them; hazarded a guess. ‘All of you? None of Im?’
    â€˜It’s strange, isn’t it?’ He picked one up. ‘It’s more than that, though.’ He frowned. ‘I know it sounds weird but I can’t quite relate to them, if you see what I mean.’
    She picked another one up. ‘How d’you mean?’
    He shook his head as if dismissing some