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wearing a Keep Calm and Carry On T-shirt last week. The baby was screaming. Last month, a client who had never been able to express his anger bought him a Keep Calm and Carry On postcard for his consulting room, and when Ralph refused to put it on the mantelpiece, explaining that it encouraged repression, theclient shouted so loudly that the counsellor working in the next room had to thump on the wall and yell KEEP IT DOWN.
    The rapid musings of a nanosecond, then Ralph’s thoughts slumped back onto his wife. Could she feel them? Flabby indecipherable weights.
    “I’m glad you’re home,” she said. “Can you go and mow the lawn?”
    “What the hell’s going on?” Arthur said, his hands deep in his pockets.
    “Nothing’s going on. The lawn really needs mowing before the party.”
    “Are you all right? What’s wrong with your eye?”
    “A little mishap.”
    “Mishap?”
    In Ralph’s mind, a swarm of broken sentences. The swarm split. It split again. He was ragged and torn, he was subdivided. Hate buzzed through him. Regret rose and fell in pathetic bursts. Not real regret—not the stuff that makes amends.
    Sadie’s words were still in the room.
    We should go to Turkey.
    I should tell them you raped me.
    Happy fucking birthday.
     
    If they gave out awards for denial, Sadie would win every year. She was an expert, a pro. This domestic song and dance— look at my bikini, let’s go to Turkey, I think you like Carol —was a deflection.
    Last week, Sadie and Kristin went to a reading at Mack’s, their local bookshop. The author was Rosanna Arquette, a poet. Much to the audience’s disappointment, this particular Rosanna Arquette was not the woman who played Roberta in Desperately Seeking Susan , but this was soon forgotten. Thepoetry was dark, graphic, erotic. It was full of love that felt like pain and pain that felt like love. Rosanna spoke of bedposts, bruises and handcuffs. Clearly something had happened to this poet since her previous three collections, which were about nature, global warming and the Lake District.
    Rows of small wooden chairs were packed tightly into alcoves. The windows were steamed up. Every complimentary glass of wine was empty. Wood creaked as people shifted position in their chairs, trying not to make a sound. Chris Preston, who owned the shop, wished he hadn’t sat beside Rosanna with every member of the audience facing him, looking him up and down for signs of arousal. Throughout the whole reading, he tried to think of nothing but his dead mother.
    At the back of the crime section, Sadie resisted all attempts to stop breathing heavily. She closed her eyes and listened. She let the words take her. She gave in. Without thinking, she moved her leg so that it was touching Kristin’s. With her eyes still closed, and while Rosanna spoke of surrender and submission, she felt Kristin’s leg push back against hers. Then they were both pushing and something had changed, something had shot through them, and Sadie pushed so hard that Kristin’s left leg jutted into a shelf of Ruth Rendell paperbacks, knocking over a display copy of Tigerlily’s Orchids .
    She opened her eyes.
    It was over.
    “Sadie Swoon, we are pleased to announce that you have won the annual Woman In Denial award for the sixteenth year running! How do you feel about that?”
    “I have no idea what you’re saying but have you ever been to Turkey? I hear it’s lovely. Would you like to see me belly dance in my bikini?”

7
THE BRIDGE
    “M iriam Delaney don’t you dare drop litter,” the headmaster said.
    “I didn’t.”
    “Yes you did, I saw you.” He dropped a sweet wrapper on the floor and winked.
    They were standing in the playground. Children were running, screaming, shouting. Miriam had been leaning against the wall, reading Charlotte’s Web . The sun was shining. The playground was a thicket of skinny shadows.
    “You’d better come to my office,” the headmaster said.
    “I don’t think