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and little desk ornaments; their postcards from around the world; their paperweights and their yellow Post-it notes to themselves, reminders of phone numbers to be rung and dental appointments that had to be kept. And everyone’s desk declared that it was a happy little personalised kingdom but always willing to join in others’ laughter. There were a couple of exceptions of course and she thought of McClean’s desk with its absence of any such softeners or revelations of personal life, his recent attempts to stop smoking – the store of nicotine chewing gum – and the ripped lottery tickets in the waste bin. His habit of sticking spent gum on the underside of his desk. She’d like to talk to him about that, as well as how he managed to get Tipp-Ex on his phone. From time to time he left her an unwanted present of fast-food containers or dregs of coffee in polystyrene cups from which he had always crumbled little bits and dropped them into the coffee. Why didn’t he get a nice mug with a snazzy slogan? She had started to think he was divorced, that he had slipped into slobbishness due to the absence of a loved one. But perhaps there never was a loved one.
    Because she wasn’t stupid she knew that the photographs couldn’t all represent perfect lives and that people only took them to preserve the moments when they were most happy, but she still couldn’t help thinking that they lived in some world that was distant from, and different to, hers. Lives which weren’t built on struggle and which gave access to higher levels of reward than she had ever been invited to share. And if there was this world, then there had to be a key, some membership card that gave admittance, so she studied their faces closely in the hope that the answer might be written there. Sometimes she told herself that it was all about luck – an accident of birth – and that made her feel better but at others she thought it was down to passing examinations and intelligence, to knowing the right information and the right secrets.
    She curled into an armchair and had her tea and toast. She didn’t want to go to Amsterdam. It was far too much money on top of everything else and even if the wedding was going to be modest in size there were still a lot of expenses to be met – both their outfits for a start, the cars, the flowers and the cost of the buffet afterwards, even though his family was going halves. She tried to add it up as she did at regular intervals and each time got a different sum, always getting confused about what cost per head they had agreed on. A meal and a few drinks afterwards would have done the hen night and they were spoilt for choice for eating places. Every five minutes there was a new one opening in the city. She’d heard people say the Red Panda was classy and she’d always fancied one of those meals with all the courses that they put on a wheel.
    After a while there was the sound of the bathroom and she knew that Shannon was up and starting the process of putting on her face, getting herself ready for the day ahead. What her daughter spent on make-up would pay for the wedding twice over – working in Debenhams and then giving them back half her wages, despite the discount. She had a lovely face – she told her that all the time – so why did she insist on plastering so much slap on it? There were heavy footsteps on the stairs and when the door opened it wasn’t Shannon but Wade.
    â€˜Morning, Karen,’ he said, straightening and tightening his tie.
    â€˜I didn’t know you were here,’ she answered, irritated that her daughter hadn’t told her.
    â€˜We got in late. I’d had a few so I just stayed.’
    â€˜Right. Better not to drink and drive.’ But he wasn’t really listening to her, instead combing his hair with his hand and checking that he’d got his mobile phone in his jacket pocket. ‘Do you want some