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miles away, were part of my wedding too. And so was the sun, and the stars beyond it, which sounds a bit over the top and a little crazy. But that was how I felt: like the centre of all existence.
    Neither one of us fancied the pressure of writing our own vows, so we stuck to the traditional ceremony. I was just looking at Greg, feeling the love and goodwill of all the people in the room, hearing Esther, who was swathed in organza with orange blossom in her hair, shouting baby babble at the top of her voice, when I caught my friend Julia’s eye and she mouthed ‘You lucky bitch’ at me clearly enough for the registrar to raise an eyebrow. Caitlin read Philip Larkin’s ‘An Arundel Tomb’. I remember those things and for me they were the vows. Those things, and the way Greg looked at me, made me realise I was getting married to the love of my life. I have been happy before, and my girls make me so happy all the time, but that day was the happiest I’ve ever been all in one go.
    I got very drunk, of course. I insisted on making a speech after Greg’s, which went on for at least ten more minutes than it should have done, but everybody laughed and cheered and put up with me showing off, as my mum would put it, because everyone there wanted the best for me. Afterwards, during the dancing, Esther spun round and round and round so that her skirt floated upwards like the petals of a flower opening outwards, and then fell asleep on my mum’s chest as she sat in the quiet room next door to the party, pretending she wasn’t actually a little tipsy and hadn’t really flirted with Greg’s Irish uncle, Mort. Julia had taken off her shoes andwas dancing with everybody’s husband, whether they liked it or not, terrifying one of the young waiters into slow dancing with her.
    Greg and I danced all night long, spinning and shimmying, doing high kicks and jazz hands. We never stopped dancing. We never stopped laughing, not until he finally picked me up and carried me up the stairs to bed, calling me ‘Ms Armstrong’, teasing me because I’d asked him before the wedding if he’d mind very much if I kept my maiden name. It had been my name for so long, and it was Caitlin’s and Esther’s too, that it just didn’t feel right to change it. Of course, he hadn’t minded – he liked it, he’d told me. He liked being married to a Ms, and as he carried me into the bridal suite he whispered in Ms Armstrong’s ear how much he loved her, whatever she was called. Finally, when I did go to sleep, the last thing I remember thinking was that this was it. This was the time that my life finally began.

3
Caitlin
    I thought about waiting in the car for her, but then I realised it was entirely possible that I would be here all day. Mum doesn’t have much of a sense of time any more: hours seem like seconds to her, and vice versa. I don’t want to get out of the safety of her confiscated cherry-red Fiat Panda and run through the rain, which is weighted like lead pellets, into the school, but I know that I have to. I have to go and collect her from her last ever day as a teacher, a day that I know is breaking her heart. And somehow, on the way home, before we are back in the middle of Gran and Esther, I have to tell her what I have done, because time is running out.
    The receptionist, Linda, whom I’ve met a few times but mainly know through Mum’s vivid and comic tales of school life, sits behind bullet-proof glass, making it look like the school is in downtown L.A. rather than Guildford.
    ‘Hi, Linda!’ I grin fiercely, which I find is the only wayto get through these sorts of conversations – the sympathy conversations that always seem to have this quiet undertone of glee.
    ‘Oh, hello, love.’ The corners of Linda’s mouth pull down in an automatic, so-sad little pout.
    After her diagnosis, Mum hadn’t wanted people to know right away: she had wanted to keep going for as long as possible, and everybody – even Mr Rajapaske, her