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experimenter. It had become perfectly plain to her, since the twins were born, that Hugh’s career was going to run out of fuel quite soon, and glide gently to a halt. This was going to be a fearful blow to him, and Julia, while bracing herself for it, was not quite sure how best she could help him bear it. In her eyes, his fading glamour as a television face had had nothing to do with falling in love with him; she’d done that because he wasn’t in the least afraid of her, and he made her laugh. He was more musical than she was, more broadly educated, inevitably more experienced. He also had, in all kinds of directions, truly catholic tastes. Once, when they had known each other only a week or so, she had asked him what kind of music he liked best and he had said at once, quite seriously, ‘Mozart for the morning and Tina Turner for the afternoons.’
    â€˜What do you see in him?’ Julia’s mother had demanded. She had wanted Julia to marry a country landowner and have Labradors.
    â€˜He delights me,’ Julia said.
    I wouldn’t mind if he didn’t work at all, Julia told herself, now, moving her feet to a cooler door, I’d only mind for him. But we’ve got to live, and we’ve got to live properly. I’m not going backwards. We’ve all got to be clothed and fed and the twins have got to be educated. It’s as simple as that. Hugh’s got no pension and no capital outside this house. It’s up to me.
    Her thoughts, which could never help themselves, began to form into a plan. If the Night Life series was generally considered a success, and led to something else, preferably under contract, then she would look about for a responsible girl who could drive, to look after the twins . . .
    The kitchen door opened. Hugh said, ‘Can’t stand not sleeping.’
    Julia put a hand out to him.
    â€˜What are you up to,’ Hugh said, ‘sitting down here looking all of fourteen? What are you plotting?’
    â€˜I’m not plotting—’
    â€˜No?’
    â€˜I’m planning.’
    â€˜Yes,’ Hugh said, his voice dropping. ‘Yes. I was afraid of that.’

Three
    â€˜My lotus flower,’ Uncle Leonard said to Mrs Cheng. ‘My little yellow peril, where the bloody hell have you put my slippers?’
    â€˜Under bed,’ said Mrs Cheng. ‘Alway’ under bed.’
    â€˜And how,’ said Leonard, leaning on his stick and snorting at her down his nose, ‘how am I, with a gammy hip and a ticker on the blink, supposed to get them? Grovel about on the floor to find the sodding things?’
    Mrs Cheng went on dusting, flick, flick, like a mechanical doll.
    â€˜Alway’ do.’
    â€˜Never do. Shall I spend the day in my bleeding socks?’
    â€˜S’pose so.’
    Leonard was very happy. He adored the days Mrs Cheng came, and heaven knows, this week needed a little light relief.
    â€˜There’s been an atmosphere here,’ he said confidingly. ‘An atmosphere like nuclear fall-out. James knocked some old bat off her bike and pow – mushroom cloud.’
    â€˜Not interested,’ said Mrs Cheng. She began to move all the pill bottles off the glass shelf above Leonard’s basin.
    â€˜Mind you,’ Leonard said, poking about under his bed and fishing out his slippers with the hooked end of his stick, ‘it was a pretty damned stupid thing to do, driving without specs.’
    Mrs Cheng ran water into the basin and began to polish the taps.
    â€˜He’s gone to see her again today, the old bat. Kate doesn’t like that. Now, why doesn’t she? Loves the halt and the lame but doesn’t like James trotting round to see a harmless old bat. What’s the reason?’
    â€˜None of your business,’ Mrs Cheng said. ‘Want coffee?’
    â€˜Yes, but not yours. Never yet met a Chink who could make coffee. Do you realize what filthy coffee you