Copyright

4th Estate

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.4thEstate.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc in 2015

This eBook edition published by 4th Estate in 2017

Copyright © Elizabeth Day, 2015

Elizabeth Day asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins

Source ISBN: 9780008221751

Ebook Edition © July 2017 ISBN: 9780008221768

Version: 2019-03-08

To Emma – here’s one for the rogue

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

HOWARD

ESME

CAROL

BEATRICE

Howard

Esme

Carol

Beatrice

Howard

Esme

Carol

Beatrice

Howard

Esme

Carol

Beatrice

Howard

Esme

Carol

Beatrice

Howard

Esme

Carol

Beatrice

Howard

Esme

Carol

Beatrice

Howard

A Note on the Author

Keep Reading

About the Publisher

HOWARD

He loved hotels. The warm swish of the automatic doors. The careful neutrality of the carpets, swept with the indentations of that morning’s vacuuming. The bright smile of the receptionist, the way her make-up acted both as deterrent and encouragement. He loved the apples in glass bowls, although he had eaten one once and been disappointed by its mustiness, the slight furry staleness that he can taste – even now – on the back of his tongue. He loved the furtive glances across lobby armchairs, the reassurance of anonymity, the cocoon of safety offered by the standardised semi-luxury of faux leather and freshly spritzed white orchids in pots.

He loved the illicit meetings: the flirtations between adulterous couples, the City insider imparting information, the journalist who is talking to a grey man of indistinct appearance, jotting down notes. He loved the hushed business, the suggestive smiles, the fountain pens proffered when he has to tick a box for a morning newspaper or sign for ‘any additional expenses, if you wouldn’t mind, sir’. He loved it all.

And today, now, on this particular morning, he can feel a benign calm wash over him with the first step he takes inside the Mayfair Rotunda; with the first slight pressure of the tip of his leather-soled bespoke Church’s shoes on the marbled floor, he senses it. He breathes in an air-conditioned lungful, allows his Italian leather overnight bag to be taken from him by gloved hands, and strides across the floor.

‘Nice to see you again, Sir Howard,’ says the receptionist. He squints at her name-badge. ‘Tanya’, it reads, in sans serif font above two miniature flags – one of them is Spanish; the other he can’t make out. Eastern European, he shouldn’t wonder. Probably one of the former Soviet states. They were getting everywhere these thin, ambitious girls with their black hair and sharp little faces. He wasn’t sure it was a good thing. The last time he’d rung Le Caprice for a reservation, the girl at the end of the line had asked in a thick, guttural accent how to spell his name. He’d been going there for years.

Nevertheless, he is not one to pre-judge. He admires chutzpah, in the right place. He’s fond, too, of romanticising the immigrant experience, of reminding himself that, if it weren’t for the British, his forebears would have been gassed by the Nazis. The Finks, as they were then, would have been rounded up by jack-booted monsters if they hadn’t managed to get to England in 1933. And now look at them, he wants to say. And now …

He has never been to the death camps – can’t face the idea of them, let alone the reality – but his personal history remains a matter of considerable pride. On the one and only occasion he had been asked by the BBC to take part in a current affairs discussion programme, he had supported the relaxing of border controls and received one of the biggest cheers of the night. Looking back, he wasn’t even sure why he’d said it. He voted Tory, for God’s sake.

He smiles at Tanya, dazzling her with his expensive teeth (veneers and whitening done by a dentist recommended to him by a minor Royal. He isn’t one to name names).

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re in your normal suite, Sir Howard.’

For a brief moment, he wants to weep with gratitude at this kindness, this foresight, this human generosity shown to him by a global corporation. He’s always been sentimental: easily moved to tears by charity television adverts with soulful-eyed children in hospital beds. But Tanya remembering his name has demonstrated – in a small, but significant gesture – that he is who he thinks he is; that his importance as a businessman is an acknowledged fact. He is reminded, by Tanya giving him his normal suite, by intuiting his needs, that he has made his way, that he has his own part to play in it all: in the oiling of cogs, in the handshakes that lead to the lunches that lead to the buying and selling that lead to the acquisition of influence, to the stake in governance that results in the eventual spinning of the world on its axis. He can make things work. At this, he is undoubtedly a success.

Here he is, then, Howard Pink (formerly Fink), a man with complete awareness of his status in life, confident in his opinions, blessedly certain of the rightness of his decisions. A man of fortune, yes, but also of distinction.

The financial press will insist on putting ‘self-made millionaire’ after the comma. Howard used to wear this as a badge of pride. These days, however, he can’t help but feel there is something patronising in the phrase, a sense among the blue-shirted City bigwigs that he is not quite of their sort. He has always found it magnificently ironic that men (and it is, by and large, still men) who revere money for the power it gives them dismiss the ownership of it unless it has been inherited.

Because, Howard thinks, as he turns towards the lift, isn’t it more impressive to have generated £150 million from nothing than to have been handed it on a plate by a doddery great-uncle with a baronetcy and a mouldy pile of National Trust stones? Isn’t it better, somehow, to have made one’s own way by selling clothes on an East London market stall, clothes sewn by his mother, God rest her soul, bent double over her Singer machine with pins in her mouth (he was for ever telling her not to put pins in her mouth. Did she listen? Did she bollocks), clothes that he took and marked up and pushed onto the unsuspecting hordes of Petticoat Lane Market? Wasn’t that more admirable? To have made a profit, to have ploughed it back into better stock, to have sold more, of better quality and at a higher price, and to have done this over and over again, with one canny eye always on the bottom line, until he owned Fash Attack, the fastest-growing chain of clothing shops on the British high street?

Wasn’t that worthy of some respect?

Because, after all, you only sold product by knowing first how to sell yourself.

As a young boy, Howard had once seen the Petticoat Lane crockery-seller assemble an entire place-setting, one plate on top of the other, and then throw the whole lot into the air. The trader had caught it on the way down with a giant clatter of noise and not one single plate had shattered. The housewives couldn’t open their purses quick enough after that.

That was how you shifted stuff. It was a question of performance. It was a matter of confidence.

He feels a moistness under the armpits. The collar on his shirt is too tight, even though he has spent an arm and a leg on it – forgive the pun. The shirt is made by a company called Eton. They normally sold shirts for tall, thin men but he’d insisted they custom-make them to accommodate his ever so slightly more corpulent form. Initially the name amused him – the conjunction of the country’s most famous public school with the rag-trade he knew like the back of his hand – but the joke didn’t last for long. Now, in the mornings, it depresses him to catch sight of the label.

He presses the button for the lift. Behind him, there is a squall of high-pitched laughter. He winces, then glances across. There are four people sitting in high-backed armchairs to one side of the lobby, being served silver trays of miniature scones, sandwiches and cupcakes. Two of them are older, their features bled of colour, their eyes faintly wrinkled. They look as though they are trying to enjoy themselves but would rather be at home, listening to Gardeners’ Question Time.

He guesses they are parents who have come into the city at the behest of their children to celebrate some family anniversary. Their offspring sit opposite them now – two young women, shrieking with hilarity, wearing skinny jeans and dark-coloured jackets, their hair slicked with the shine of urbanity, their lips stretched with the complacency of youth. A mobile phone, encased in pink diamanté, lies on the table in front of them. One of the girls sees him looking and stops laughing abruptly.

He thinks of her, then, as he had known he would. He thinks of the person he tries daily to forget without actually wanting to do so. He allows himself one brief flash of recall: her hair in bunches, a gap where her front tooth should have been. She is wearing a tartan dress and crushing rose petals in a mixing bowl to make what she calls perfume.

His daughter. Ada. Named after his mum.

The lift pings. He walks in, forces himself to smile at the reflection in the mirror. On the fourth floor, the doors part and he turns left down the corridor, glancing at the cardboard key holder to remind himself of the number. Room 423. A corner room.

He slips the plastic key into the slot. The door handle light winks green. He enters. His luggage is already there, on the rack by the television. The inner curtains are half-drawn, the white net giving the room a drowsy, shadowed feel. The flat-screen television is set to a personalised welcome message. Two glass bottles of mineral water stand on the capacious desk. The mirrors are all discreetly tilted and lit in a way that makes him look at least ten pounds lighter. He knows, without having to open it, that the minibar will contain a half-bottle of fine Chablis and a bar of Toblerone.

Safety, he thinks, inhaling the familiarity of the surroundings. There is a particular security, for Howard, derived only from an ease that has been painstakingly thought out by other people for his benefit. He admires the competence and does not mind paying over the odds for it. It allows him, for a few hours, to be entirely outside himself.

He removes his jacket, places it on the back of a chair, slips his BlackBerry out of the inner pocket and turns it off. He unlaces his shoes. And then, in spite of the fact that it is three in the afternoon, in spite of the fact that Tanya the receptionist would be surprised at what he is about to do, in spite of the fact that Sir Howard Pink has appointments to make, places to be, people to meet, companies to manage, emails to answer and balance sheets to read, he pads into the bathroom, turns on the tap and runs himself a deep, deep bath.

This is what he does on the first Monday of each month. A ritual, if you like.

Afterwards, smelling of generic spiced shower gel, he puts on his robe. Howard notes with displeasure that the edge of one cuff is bobbled. He can’t abide untidiness in clothes. He has been known to throw away a pair of trousers after finding a badly stitched seam or an unravelling thread. Fastidious, that’s what Claudia calls him. It was one of her words, deployed in conversation to confuse those who imagined she was little more than a silicone-enhanced trophy wife. He found her reading the dictionary sometimes in bed.

‘What are you doing that for?’ he’d ask.

‘I’m improving myself, Howie. You should do the same.’ And then she’d read out one of the definitions and get him to guess what word it belonged to.

‘“Pertaining to a gulf; full of gulfs; hence, devouring.”’

‘I dunno.’

‘“Voraginous.”’

He’d never get the right word. But that, of course, was part of Claudia’s cunning. She wasn’t clever but she knew how to jab him in the ribs, how to bring him down a peg or two when necessary. Everyone knew he’d left school at fifteen without qualifications: it was part of the Howard Pink myth. In the interviews he’d done way back when he’d opened his first flagship store in Regent Street, he’d been delighted when the journalists brought it up, had revelled in the image being created for him of a hard-working lad with gumption and guile who didn’t suffer fools gladly. He can admit now he’d been flattered by the attention, by the notion that these Oxbridge graduates from The Times and the Telegraph with their economics degrees and their flashy dictaphones were wanting to talk to him – to Howie Pink of Pink’s Garments on Petticoat Lane – and record his answers for posterity.

One of the headlines had read: ‘Howard Pink: the self-made tycoon who’s got it tailor-made.’ The accompanying photograph showed him mid-laughter, his stomach billowing out like a sail in full wind, his face scrunched up, his tongue lolling grotesquely to one side. He’d liked the idea of being a tycoon.

The picture did him no favours. Still, he thought he could live with it.

But through the years, that photo had been used again and again. Even though it was now twenty years out of date and he’d stopped giving interviews after what happened, they still used it like a taunt, a reminder of his perceived clownishness. For a while, for obvious reasons, he’d become ‘Tragic self-made millionaire Howard Pink’ and the photograph had disappeared, but now there had been a sudden resurgence.

It had popped up again last month in an in-flight magazine. He’d been flying back first-class from Munich and there it was, in full Technicolor glory, when he leafed through Airwaves: a gurning facsimile of Howard Pinkishness, used to illustrate a four-page feature on British businesses. He’d been fatter back then and had indulged in a misguided attempt to grow some facial hair. It was before he’d had his teeth done too. Suffice to say, it wasn’t his best angle.

After the in-flight magazine, he’d called Rupert, his PR man.

‘Anything you can do to stop them using that fucking thing?’ he’d asked.

‘Legally, you mean?’

‘Legally, illegally, I’m not fussy.’

There had been a quick intake of breath on the other end of the line. Rupert could never tell whether his boss was joking or not.

‘Er, well, Howard, we want to keep the media on-side, for obvious reasons, so I’d caution against doing anything too draconian—’

‘Draconian’. Another of Claudia’s words.

‘But why don’t I do a quick call-round of the newspaper editors and ask them to refrain from using it? They’ll be only too willing to play ball if it means they get more access.’

‘I don’t want to give more access, Rupe.’

Rupert tittered ‘Yes, but they don’t need to know that, do they? Leave it with me, Howard.’

Rupert had done his ring-round and, for a few weeks, the photograph had retreated from view like an unsightly child. But then, yesterday, there it was again: slap bang in the middle of a page in the Sunday Tribune, accompanying an article based on the wafer-thin scientific premise that life is kinder to optimists. The caption read: ‘Despite personal unhappiness, the self-made millionaire Sir Howard Pink has always looked on the brighter side.’

He’s sick of everyone assuming they know him. He’s sick of the caricature. He fears he’ll never be taken seriously. The BBC had never asked him back, had they? Instead, any time they needed a talking head, they got that preening old buffer with the luxuriant white hair who ran the Association of British Retail and who wouldn’t know what good sense was if it painted itself purple and jumped on his nose. Wanker.

‘They can’t disassociate you now from what happened with Ada,’ Rupert had told him once, choosing his words carefully. ‘They see the tragic backstory, not the business acumen.’

‘The tragic backstory’. Those had been his exact words.

Howard feels anger rising in his gut. He goes to the window, draws back the curtain and peers out at London’s grubby weekday glamour, looking for something to soothe his nascent agitation. A black trickle of taxicabs is beetling its way to the hotel entrance like a spreading trail of petrol. From his vantage point, Howard can make out the shiny hardness of their bonnets, the lucent yellow of each ‘For Hire’ sign reflected in the dark pool of the paintwork. Shifting his gaze along the road, he sees a young woman in high heels and a flapping mackintosh, belt knotted at the back, a copy of the Evening Standard peeking out of her handbag. She is holding a lit cigarette between two fingers and a café-chain cardboard cup of coffee in the other hand and she is walking so quickly that the coffee keeps spilling over the aperture in the plastic lid and splashing onto the checked lining of her coat. He wonders if she’ll notice soon, or if it will only be later, when she takes off her coat and is assailed by the musty smell of stale, too-sweet coffee, that she will realise. He wishes he could follow her to find out. He likes to know how a story ends.

The woman carries on walking: a brisk tick-tacking on the paving stones that echoes then fades. Up above her, a metal criss-cross of scaffolding has been erected to cover the façade of the mansion block opposite, each slotted-in pole the precise pigeon-grey of the sky beyond, each brick the damp russet colour that Howard has come to associate uniquely with his city. A builder in a hard hat and a reflective vest sends a formless shout into the street below.

Howard wishes they’d stop tampering with everything. There was so much building going on in London these days. Lumbering mechanical cranes pierced the skyline at regular intervals. Hoardings patterned with the meaningless insignia of redevelopment had cropped up everywhere. Streets were shut down, traffic diverted, bridges closed, all in the name of a frantic progress, an endless quest for more things that were shiny and new and glittering, when increasingly all Howard lusts after is the past, packaged up, preserved and honoured. Nice, historical buildings that didn’t demand attention, designed to a manageable scale so that everyone knew what they were getting.

He lets the curtain fall and then reminds himself he is not here to get annoyed by modern architecture. These monthly nights in this Mayfair hotel are meant to be his meditation space, a few hours’ holiday from himself and his memories. Only Rupert, Claudia and Tracy, his PA, know about them. Everyone else is told he’s away on business. He tells himself he must make the most of it before going back to normality tomorrow morning.

He takes slower breaths. He pushes back his shoulder blades and stretches his arms. He tries counting to ten but only gets to three before he remembers the Chablis.

Howard takes the bottle out of the minibar, unscrews the top and pours himself a healthy measure. The glass frosts up satisfyingly. Perfect temperature. A viticulturist (there are such things) once told him he shouldn’t over-refrigerate white wines. Howard repeated this to anyone he thought might be impressed and sometimes sent back cold wine at restaurants just to show he couldn’t be made a fool of. In the privacy of these four walls, however, he felt at liberty to indulge his own secret taste.

Or lack of it, as the case may be.

There is a knock on the door.

‘Housekeeping,’ comes a disembodied voice from the other side of the lustrous wood laminate.

Howard looks at the bedside clock. He is shocked to see it is already 6 p.m. and the maid is coming to do the pre-dinner turn-down. He opens the door. A black face smiles at him broadly.

‘I can come back later if you like,’ the woman says, her voice lightly accented. Howard takes in the smoothness of her skin, taught over high cheekbones, and the compactness of her diminutive frame, clad in a fitted black blouse and black trousers. She is carrying a moulded plastic basket, filled with cleaning products and mini-packets of shortbread.

‘No, no,’ he replies, loosening the belt of his robe ever so slightly. ‘Come on in.’ He holds the door with his arm so that the maid has to bend under to walk through. She giggles as she does so. Howard is encouraged.

The maid checks the tea tray and replaces a sachet of hot chocolate, then goes into the bedroom with a quick economy of movement. When Howard follows, he sees she is piling the purple and brown cushions neatly at the foot of the bed. She glances over her shoulder, catches his eye and giggles again. He laughs lightly, then takes two steps towards her. She is bending over the bed and her backside is pressing against the fabric of her trousers. Howard, who knows how these things are done, who has successfully initiated a handful of similar transactions in high-end hotels across the globe, comes up close behind her, puts his hands on either side of her waist and nudges the knot of his robe belt against the maid’s haunches.

For a second, she tenses and does not move. Then, without looking at him, the maid straightens up, letting the pillow she is holding in one hand drop onto the Egyptian cotton, 450-thread count sheets.

‘Sir … I …’

‘Shhh,’ Howard says, nuzzling her neck, smelling the sweetness of cocoa butter. He does not like to talk in these situations. Talking would make it more real.

With the maid still turned towards the bed, he unbuttons her shirt with the quick fingers bequeathed him by generations of Finks. He slips his thumb underneath the wiring of her bra, easing in his hand until it cups the maid’s right breast. He groans, in spite of himself. With his free hand, he undoes his belt, lets the robe fall open, and grips his erection. He starts slowly, rhythmically, moving up and down the shaft, all the while holding the maid’s breast, feeling the nipple turn hard underneath his touch. She is breathing more quickly now. He cannot see her face but he knows, without needing to have it confirmed, that she is smiling, that she is enjoying this, that she is loving the attention, that she is gagging for it, that she needs him to thrust against her and take her and spill his white seed across her skin … He comes with a half-suppressed sigh and a feeling of disgust. It is all over in a matter of seconds.

He is aware, even in the midst of his supposed abandon, of the need not to stain the maid’s dark trousers.

Once a tailor, always a tailor, as his mum might say. God rest her soul.

ESME

Esme has started walking to the office as part of a springtime health kick. She lives in Shepherd’s Bush and works on High Street Kensington, so admittedly, it’s not the most arduous walk and, according to those miserable cut-out-and-keep fitness guides in various women’s magazines, it will hardly burn any calories at all (something called spinning does that, she has discovered, and she imagines a stuffy room filled with Victorian peasants frantically producing exercise leotards from their super-fast spinning wheels). Anyway, apparently spinning gets rid of 450 calories an hour. A Mars bar contains 280. So the chances are that her forty-five-minute walk will allow her to eat approximately half a molecule more chocolate than she would do otherwise.

But the walk makes her feel better, mentally. It makes her feel she’s doing something, at least, instead of sitting on her arse all day, either at her desk or in the train on the way to another futile doorstep on editor’s orders. Esme doesn’t need to lose weight. She possesses the natural slenderness of the terminally neurotic. But, being a woman, she feels guilty about not exercising. And her colleague Sanjay once told her that your metabolism slowed down to a crawling pace when you hit thirty. She’d been eating a baked potato at the time.

‘You won’t be able to do carbs any more,’ he’d said, flicking an elegant wrist in her direction. ‘You’ll want to be eating seeds and grains.’

‘Seeds and grains?’ She pushed the baked potato to one side, regretfully. ‘What, like birds?’

Sanjay nodded knowledgeably. He was the health editor and abreast of such things.

‘Keen-wah,’ he said. ‘That’s what you’ll need.’

‘Bless you.’

‘Ha-de-bloody-ha. I’m only telling you this for your own good, missy. This’ – he flapped a hand in front of her torso – ‘doesn’t come for free.’

When she’d turned thirty last December, Sanjay’s words had jangled in her head like a drawerful of mismatched cutlery. She was terrified that she’d pile on unwanted pounds purely by eating the same as she’d always done. For about a week, Esme had stuck faithfully to the recipes provided by a ‘Low-GI’ website but, by the end of seven days, she was heartily sick of egg-white omelettes and slow-release oats. Then it was Christmas anyhow so there was no point in thinking about calorie control, and after a few months she realised nothing had changed. She still hovered around nine stone and ideally wanted to be eight, like Liz Hurley, but there were some things you just had to live with.

If only she were more like Robbie. Her brother had an innate capacity for getting on with life. He never worried too much about anything and, as a result, he seemed to love exercise purely for the uncomplicated physical motion, as if the pump and pound of each straining muscle could push out extraneous thought. He’d done the London Marathon last year in under five hours without even trying. She’d been there to cheer him on past the finish line and he’d given her a huge, sweaty hug from underneath a crinkly silver blanket that was meant to help his muscles relax.

She hates running. The walking though … the walking was a good thing. Esme liked the routine of it. She liked putting on her trainers (last worn when she tried out – unsuccessfully – for the university hockey team) and packing her smart shoes in a bag to change into later because it prolonged the morning, delaying the inevitability of work just that little bit longer.

The trainers make her feel she is bouncing along the pavement. Today, the bounce is accentuated by her good mood. She’d had a page lead-in on Sunday about the power of optimism that was followed up by most of the dailies including the Mail, which carried a substantial op-ed piece by a ‘self-confessed Victor Meldrew’ headlined: ‘Optimism? Bah humbug!’ For the Mail to follow you up was a considerable feather in your cap. Dave, the news editor, would be pleased.

She reaches a stretch of Holland Park Road lined by upmarket shops. There is a butcher’s here that is rumoured to be patronised by the Queen. Esme once bought a chicken from them in an emergency (she’d forgotten the main part of a roast she was meant to be cooking) and was charged £16 because it had been ‘corn-fed’. At £16, she would have preferred it to have been fed the sacrificial entrails of small human babies, but she didn’t complain out loud. Most of her fury was internal. She was that kind of person.

She crosses the road at the traffic lights, upping her pace to fit in with the rhythm of a new boy-band hit that is storming the charts. It is a saccharine number about finding teen love and although Esme knows she should hate it, knows that any journalist worth their salt would pour cynical bile over the lyrics and the sentiment, secretly she loves it. At work, Esme tries to keep her naïve idealism under wraps, but it’s not easy. When they’d covered the Royal Wedding last year, she’d cried a little watching the service on the big screens in the office – just at the bit where William saw Kate in that amazing dress for the first time – and Dave had caught her.

‘Time of the month?’ he said, patting her on the shoulder. And then, condescendingly, ‘Don’t worry, Es. Harry’s still on the market.’

Her prolonged single status was a source of much office merriment. Well, she thinks, as she powers on up towards Notting Hill, she’d rather be on her own than in a marriage like Dave’s. He’d been with his wife since time began but was known as a shagger – it was all those long office hours and willing student journalists, desperate for a job on a national straight out of the City postgrad course. Shame, really, as his wife was lovely and normal: she’d been to a couple of the office Christmas parties and was a petite, surprisingly pretty blonde woman who worked as a supply teacher and – shockingly – didn’t drink much. They had four photogenic children at various schools and universities which meant Dave had no hope of quitting any time soon, unless an exceptionally generous voluntary redundancy package came his way.

‘You want my advice?’ he’d said to Esme at a recent leaving party, slurring his words and bending his head in too close to hers so that she could smell the brackishness of hours-old white wine on his breath. ‘Get out while you can. Go and make some money. Wish I’d done that. Wish I’d gone into fucking PR like my mate Rupert …’

She didn’t like it when Dave got drunk. It demeaned him, she thought, made him like all the others. Sober, he was a brilliant news editor: dogged but instinctive and blessed with a peculiar ability to inspire loyalty despite his personal failings. You genuinely wanted Dave to say something you did was good. In his day, he’d been a solid but unexceptional reporter on the Express and covered the first Iraq War. But it was editing that brought the best out of him, that played to his sense of mischief and his mistrust of authority.

Esme sighs. She has a bit of a crush on Dave, actually, which is odd considering he isn’t what you might describe as a looker. He is half an inch shorter than her for a start, with boxer’s shoulders and a chunky, muscular frame: not the type she’d normally go for at all. But there’s something about him. She’s always been a sucker for men in power, for a start, and he’s funny too, in a quiet, lethal way. She catches him sometimes, just after he’s issued one of his sarcastic put-downs to an unsuspecting reporter, and his face looks like a small boy’s: cheeky eyes and a lopsided grin that almost makes you forget the bad teeth and the irritating habit he has of practising his golf swings when you’re trying to talk to him.

She’s not stupid though. Esme won’t let anything happen. It’s hard enough being a woman in a newsroom without the whispers behind your back that you’re only getting the good jobs because you’re sleeping with the boss. Besides, she flatters herself that he respects her too much to try it on.

She turns right down Kensington Church Street, looking in the windows of all the lovely antique shops as she passes, filled with beautiful trinkets she would never be able to buy. The blossom is out on the trees: big pink clouds that she wants to squeeze, like a baby’s legs. Esme feels a surge of happiness that spring is here. The evenings are lighter and longer, sunlit by the yellow-green London glow. Ever since she moved here from her family home in Herefordshire, the excitement of the city has pulsated through her veins: a buzzing, booming sensation of being at the centre of things, of believing anything could happen.

Her pleasant mood is accompanied by a feel-good soul number, courtesy of Radio 1, so that, for a few moments, she feels as though she is the star of a beautifully shot indie film with an interesting soundtrack.

Then she remembers that morning conference is less than an hour away and a panic rises in her gullet. Stories, she thinks. I need stories.

The Sunday Tribune was one of the only nationals that still insisted its reporters must gather at 10.30 a.m. on a Tuesday morning in the offices of the overall editor and pitch two news stories for the weekend’s edition. When Esme first started there a little over eighteen months ago, fresh out of the Hunter Media trainee programme (flagship publication: Trucking Today), she had been desperate to impress. She’d brought in a bona fide scoop in her second week, involving the discovery of a protected bird species on land that had been earmarked for a controversial detention centre for asylum seekers. It ran on page five (right-hand pages were always the best) alongside a picture of an owl and some sad-looking Africans. The RSPB had called her story ‘game-changing’. The detention centre had to be shelved. A local MP had written to Esme to thank her in person. Dave hadn’t publicly acknowledged her success, but she had detected a slight thawing in his attitude towards her. She’d been thrilled.

But now, after a year and a half of Freedom of Information requests on how many chocolate HobNobs Cabinet ministers bought for hospitality purposes and Googling consumer-friendly research studies from American universities, Esme was starting to tire of it all. She had one half-baked notion for this morning’s conference about the rise in popularity of semi-naked charity calendars. They were everywhere, she’d noticed of late: middle-aged women with their baps out hiding their private parts behind a giant milk urn to raise money for some worthy cause. Esme had a hunch that the National Association of Nudists, a humourless organisation she’d dealt with in the past, would be unhappy about this. They’d probably think it wasn’t taking nudism seriously enough. She was sure she could whip them up into some kind of newsworthy frenzy.

Other than that, the story cupboard is bare and she’s almost at work. She alights onto High Street Kensington and looks up at the art deco Barker’s department store building, squinting as she always does to see if she can find her desk through the narrow, slatted windows. She waves at the security guard because she never remembers his name, then swipes her pass over the electronic entry gates and takes the escalator to the first floor.

Looking down, she realises she’s forgotten to take her trainers off.

‘Shit.’ Esme hates the thought of anyone seeing her like this: half-formed and unprofessional, like a mismatched extra out of Working Girl (perhaps her favourite 1980s film, in a closely fought contest with Ferris Bueller’s Day Off). She struggles to get her heels from her canvas bag before the final step of the escalator. At the top, she changes shoes quickly, slipping her stockinged feet into a pair of mildly uncomfortable patent-leather courts from Marks & Spencer and putting her dirty white trainers back into her bag. She hopes no one notices. But then, glancing up at the mezzanine balcony where everyone goes for their fag breaks, she sees someone staring at her. It’s Dave, shaking his head at her through a fug of cigarette smoke. The management had tried to move the smokers outside after the ban but no one had taken any notice and, in the end, they’d admitted defeat and built partitions on the balcony to pen everyone in. You could always tell what time of day it was according to how much smoke the enclosed balcony was holding. In the morning, it was a gentle mist of grey. By lunchtime, the smoke would have acquired its own twisting logic, pressing against the glass like freshly shorn strands of sheep’s wool. By evening, the balcony was a choking-hole filled with toxic dry ice.

Esme gets to her desk and logs on. Sanjay is already at his seat, directly opposite her, his face half obscured by the large Mac screen.

‘Morning, sunshine,’ he says, without taking his eyes from the computer. ‘Nice weekend?’

‘Yeah, thanks, um … what did I do?’ Esme puts her jacket on the back of her ergonomic chair, adjusted by Occupational Health to precisely the right height in order to avoid repetitive strain injury. ‘Can’t remember. But it was nice, whatever it was. You?’

Sanjay nodded.

‘The boyfriend was over from Rome,’ he said. ‘We stayed in and watched Breaking Bad because we’re exciting like that.’ He sipped from a giant Starbucks cup. Esme knew it would be a Green Tea. Sanjay had given up caffeine for a new year’s resolution and was still sticking to it with all the puritanical zeal of a Mayflower pilgrim.

‘Have you got stories?’ he asked.

She shook her head.

‘Me neither.’

There was a special rhythm to Sunday newspapers. Tuesday mornings were tense and mildly fractious as everyone tried to cobble together something for conference. By lunchtime, a relaxed bonhomie had set in. When Esme had first started at the Tribune, most of the newsroom then disappeared to lunch ‘contacts’ while secretly lunching each other and racking up considerable wine bills that they then claimed on expenses. Those days had long passed and she wasn’t entirely sad to see them go. There was a limit to how effective she could be after several large glasses of Sauvignon blanc in the middle of the day.

Wednesdays were for faffing around – doing the odd telephone interview to stand up a story and surreptitiously booking holidays online when Dave wasn’t looking.

By Thursday, you needed to have at least one concrete story for that weekend’s paper so that Dave could add it to the news list and present it to the editor. If you didn’t, then you were in the perilous position of being sent out to cover running stories like murder cases or political scandals and that involved a lot of standing around with other journalists in the rain, waiting for an important person to comment, then elbowing your way to the front when they did so.

Friday consisted of long hours, frantic typing and last-minute changes of mind from the desk. You were lucky to get out by midnight. Then on Saturday, the misery of working on a weekend gave rise to a shared solidarity of spirit that left you feeling strangely cheerful. When the paper went off stone at 7.30 p.m., almost everyone decamped to the pub (apart from Rita, the part-time sub, who was older and wore the perpetually harassed expression of a working mother whose needs were conspicuously not being met).

Sunday started with a hangover and a nervous feeling in the pit of Esme’s stomach about where her article would appear and whether she’d got any fact or quote horribly wrong. The first thing she did was to walk round the corner from her flat to buy the papers from a shop on the Uxbridge Road. Every week, without fail, the newsagent would make the same joke as he totted up the total on the cash register.

‘Light reading?’

Every week, Esme gritted her teeth and smiled politely at this charmless imbecile then went home and flicked straight to her pieces. Some weekends, the article she’d expected to see wasn’t there and she realised it had been spiked and no one had bothered to tell her. Those were the worst days. She found it hard to pull herself out of a bad mood when she had no byline in the paper. It felt as though she didn’t exist.

It is just as she is typing ‘academic study’ into Google News that Esme feels a looming presence behind her chair.

‘Try “Watergate”,’ Dave says, smirking. ‘See if anything comes up. I’ve heard, on the down low, that geezer Nixon might be up to something.’

Esme flushes. Across from her, Sanjay is busy looking busy.

‘Can I have a word?’ Dave asks ominously. ‘In my office.’

She follows him into a glass-partitioned box that Dave has clung on to, in spite of the owners’ constant attempts to make everything into an open-plan, twenty-four-hour, internet-focused news hub. It is an airless room: the windows overlook the building’s interior atrium and the walls are lined with bookcases stuffed with out-of-date editions of Who’s Who, lever-arch files and long-ago awards certificates encased in dusty Perspex. On one wall, there is a framed picture of the Sunday Tribune wall clock from the glory days of Fleet Street, set perpetually to ten past two: a civilised time, Esme always thinks, for a more civilised era.

‘Take a seat,’ he says, gesturing to a chair covered in back copies of the New Statesman and old Snickers wrappers. Esme removes the detritus and sits, opening her notepad to a fresh page and readying her pen in an effort to look on top of things.

‘Nice piece on Sunday,’ Dave says, chewing his thumbnail.

Esme is surprised. The optimism study was precisely the kind of thing Dave usually hated: no investigation, no titillation, just a space-filler to keep the readers happy while they ate their Sunday morning croissants and muesli.

‘Sir Howard complained,’ he says.

‘Howard Pink?’ Esme jots down his name for no reason.

‘Yeah. We used a picture he wasn’t happy with.’

‘Well that was the picture desk, not me …’

Dave waves her objections aside. ‘Yeah, I know that, obviously,’ he says, over-enunciating each word to underline her frustrating slowness. He looks at her levelly across his desk. His skin is weathered and pouchy and he has a patch of eczema on one corner of his mouth. The backs of his hands are smattered with faint brown hairs. He’s only forty-seven but seems older, more weary. Esme realises she is staring and drops her gaze. Her mouth is dry.

‘I wondered why Mike used it actually,’ she says. ‘Given all the stuff that happened to Sir Howard. It didn’t seem exactly right for a light-hearted …’

Dave cuts across her. ‘I told Mike to use it.’

‘Oh. Right. I just thought, what with Sir Howard’s daughter going missing all those years ago …’

‘Yeah, I know, all very sad,’ Dave says, not seeming remotely perturbed. ‘But life goes on, doesn’t it, and Sir Howard hasn’t exactly been the shy and retiring type since then, so we were perfectly within our rights to use the picture, but …’

She waits. Dave stands up, flexes his arms and takes up the imaginary 4-iron, swinging it back and forward, warming up to hit some non-existent ball. ‘Well, his PR guy had asked newspapers not to use that particular photo. Pink doesn’t like it, apparently. Thinks it makes him look like a buffoon which is, of course,’ Dave takes aim somewhere near the under-watered rubber plant on his bookshelf and swings, ‘true.’

Esme suppresses a groan. She finds this display extremely tiresome. It is what Dave believes to be a show of masculinity, the news editor’s equivalent of a peacock displaying its plumage. Every time she thinks she might properly fancy Dave, that it might be more than a workplace crush, he goes and does something that shatters the idea completely.

‘Right, so why did you use it then?’

Dave grins. ‘Because he told me not to.’

Esme smiles in spite of herself. ‘And what I’d like you to do, young lady, is to call Pink up, apologise, say it’s not your fault, beyond your control blah, blah, blah but that the least you could do is take him out for lunch to say sorry.’ Dave flicks through a Rolodex on the desk in front of him. He is the only person she knows who refuses to get an iPhone or a BlackBerry and keeps all his contacts on a series of battered index cards. ‘Take him to Alain Ducasse at the Dorchester, he’ll love that,’ he says, handing over a card which has several numbers on it, all but one of them scribbled out in red ballpoint pen.

‘Thanks, I can look the number up …’

‘Take it.’

She reaches across, accidentally touching his fingers as she takes the card. She feels a small internal spasm as she does so.

‘You’ll need to speak to his PR man first. Rupert Leitch. He’s a mate of mine from university days. I’ll let him know you’re calling—’ Dave hands her another dog-eared card. ‘Well sod off then,’ he says, clicking on his computer mouse. ‘Look lively.’

Esme returns to her desk, closing the door to Dave’s office as she leaves.

‘What was that about?’ Sanjay asks.

‘Howard Pink,’ she says.

‘The guy whose daughter went missing?’

Esme nods.

‘What was her name? It’s on the tip of my tongue,’ Sanjay continues. He has an astonishing recall for current affairs-based trivia. ‘Ada. That was it. Ada Pink. Sweet-looking girl. Weird that she was never found.’

She lets him burble on, murmuring at intervals to appear interested. Sanjay was perfectly capable of talking for half an hour about the kind of sandwiches he was going to have for lunch that day. The weekly appearance of ‘Pizza Thursday’ in the canteen was a cause for conversational frenzy. After a while, his train of thought peters out and he falls silent. Esme glances at her watch. Only ten minutes till conference. Back to the nudists, then. She’ll deal with Pink later.

CAROL

Carol wakes in the early hours when there is a heavy, pressing sensation on her lower legs and she knows that Milton has jumped onto the bed. Milton paws at the duvet, kneading the feathers like dough before settling himself into the curve shaped by the crook of her right knee, which happens to be precisely the most awkward position for Carol.

Why does he always go for the least convenient option? Carol can barely get through the newspaper these days without Milton walking all over the pages, pushing his head against her face, purring and mewling until she pays him the necessary attention.

She shouldn’t be so hard on him. He misses Derek of course. Derek had always been the softer touch: spooning jellied chunks of Whiskas into the feeding bowl when he thought she wasn’t looking and tickling Milton’s chin until the cat was rolled over, eyes closed, whiskers trembling with pleasure.

Unwilling to disturb him, Carol waits to see what the cat will do next, her senses pricked with the peculiar alertness that comes with the density of darkness after midnight. There is a bit of shuffling, then the sound of conscientious licking.

Oh Lord, she thinks, he’s washing himself. We’ll be here all night – or what there was left of it. She wonders what time it is. It feels like 5 a.m. but she refuses to look at the clock on the bedside table in case it confirms her fear there is even longer to go until daylight. Sleep is such a nuisance these days. The doctor has given her pills but she doesn’t like to take them in case she never wakes up. Besides, she knows what the problem is. She’s not used to the absence on the other side of the bed, not yet anyhow, and there’s nothing anyone can do about that. She edges her left foot to the side, like a bather testing the water. For a moment, she convinces herself that her toes are going to make contact with the warm cotton of his pyjamas but instead her foot grazes against the coolness of the sheets where Derek should be.

She shivers, withdraws her leg, wonders how many minutes have passed.

Eventually Milton settles down and starts purring, gently at first but then rising in volume until it becomes impossible for her to ignore. Carol sighs loudly, exactly how she used to when Derek was snoring, hoping he would wake up, be apologetic, give her a cuddle and allow her to sink back into the uninterrupted sleep of one who knows she is loved. But of course Milton would never respond to such passive-aggressive tactics. He is, after all, a cat.

She tries to slip her right leg out from underneath his bulk, but Milton stirs and she is caught between wanting to get back to sleep and needing his company. She lies there, eyes open, legs twisted at odd angles. If she just keeps still and tries to relax, then maybe a tiredness will ‘wash over’ her like it always does in books.

A dull glow from the street lamp outside filters through the curtains, casting a buttery grey light over the bed. She traces the beam of it as it dips and curves across the crumpled duvet and imagines the slopes and valleys of a vast desert, the sand poured across her by some unknown hand as she slept.

She had been to a desert once, with Derek, in Tunisia. It had been a package holiday a few years back, one of those deals he found on the web. He was ever so good on the computer, was Derek. He had always been able to find nice places to stay whereas she never knew where to look. He’d tried to teach her how to do the grocery shopping online at Tesco once but she’d never got the hang of it. And part of her didn’t trust the idea of it anyway: she liked to touch her fruit and veg. You couldn’t smell a cantaloupe melon through a screen, now could you?

The Tunisia deal had been ten days fully inclusive in a four-star hotel on the island of Djerba. Neither of them had a clue what to expect: all they had wanted was guaranteed sunshine, a ground-floor room for easy access and a swimming pool that Carol could lie by and read her books.

When they got there, ashen and sweaty from the flight over, the hotel had exceeded all expectations. It was an enormous white building with marble floors and balconies layered on top of each other like a wedding cake. The staff had been impeccably efficient and polite. Their room overlooked the pool and was only a short walk from reception which was good for Derek, given how bad his leg was.

For the first couple of days, they hadn’t done much, which suited them fine. They’d wake every morning at 7.30, like they did at home, then go to the restaurant for breakfast. The buffet was laden with every type of food: pastries, cereal, cheese, flatbreads, muesli, little bowls of chopped-up dates and several trays of cured meats (there were a lot of Germans, Derek pointed out with slight displeasure. Carol told him to stop being narrow-minded. ‘The war’s over, Derek, in case you hadn’t noticed.’ He’d had the grace to look shamefaced).

After breakfast, Carol would set up her sunlounger underneath a parasol by the pool, slather herself in lotion and take one of her thrillers out to read until lunchtime. For hours she lay there, stately as a galleon, while Derek pottered about indoors doing heaven knows what with his crosswords and his gadget-instruction manuals he’d brought over especially from England.

‘What do you want them for?’ she’d asked when she spotted him packing the leaflets into his leather satchel. ‘How to’ manuals for digital radios, microwaves, dishwashers, broadband connections and the like.

‘I don’t get a chance to concentrate properly when I’m at home,’ he explained, turning to look at her with an affronted expression. ‘I like to know how things work. No harm in that, is there?’

She smiled, patted him on the shoulder.

‘No love, none at all.’

At lunchtime, still full from breakfast, they’d waddle over to the poolside bar and have a salad or some fresh fish. Derek would drink a bottle of the local beer. Carol would order a fresh fruit smoothie. They’d retire to their room for an afternoon nap and then, in the early evening before dinner, they’d watch a DVD from one of the selection the hotel had on offer. On Golden Pond was a favourite. Carol cried when she saw Katharine Hepburn and Henry Fonda, all shaky with age and set in their ways. There was something so moving about people in love growing old. It’s a future you never imagine for yourself when you’re young. And yet she knew, without quite admitting it out loud, that the characters in the film weren’t that much older than her and Derek.

But on the third day, one of the hotel staff had asked if they wanted to go on an organised excursion to the desert and Derek had signed them up, even though Carol wasn’t sure.

‘It’ll be an experience,’ he said, holding her hand. She noticed the thinness of his fingers, the brittleness of his pale nails.

‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ she said. She was nervous of the unexpected. Derek thought it was one of her failings. No sense of adventure. People were always talking nowadays of the need to ‘get out of your comfort zone’ but Carol would really rather stay inside it, thank you very much. If you were already comfortable, why would you choose not to be? That would be like deciding to sit on a hard wooden chair rather than a big soft sofa. It wouldn’t teach you anything apart from the fact you didn’t like hard wooden chairs and she knew that already.

‘Come on, poppet,’ Derek cajoled. ‘It might be fun.’

His eyes were bright at the thought of it. She saw that he’d caught the sun without even trying: his cheeks were pinkish-brown and the tip of his nose was beginning to peel. He was still a good-looking man, she thought, even now, two years shy of his seventieth birthday. His face had filled out as he got older and the extra weight suited him, made him look dignified.

He was five years older than her. When she first met him, at her friend Elsie’s twenty-first birthday party, he had reminded her of a dark-eyed bird: rapid and precise in his movements, his face a combination of angles and planes, his nose beaky, and with a shock of brown hair that seemed to blow about even when there was no wind. He had been skinny, almost too thin, and yet she had seen something comforting in his shape as soon as he walked through the door, bending to fit his gangly height into the small, smoky room. She had felt, even then, that she could tell Derek anything and he would understand. He didn’t need to say anything and still he would be in tune with everything she thought.

‘All right then,’ Carol said, kissing her husband lightly on the tip of his peeling nose. ‘Let’s go to the desert.’

And in the end, it had been amazing. They’d been driven in an air-conditioned jeep across a Roman causeway that connected the island to the mainland and then on to Ksar Ghilane, an oasis lined with date trees and criss-crossed with shallow drainage ditches. The night had been spent in a spacious tent and, although Carol had been worried about the heat, the temperature dropped, and she found that she slept deeply, her dreams accompanied by the rhythmic tautening and loosening of the linen canopy.

The next day, the tour operators had laid on an evening camel ride into the desert.

‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ Carol asked, spearing a fresh chunk of pineapple on her fork over breakfast. ‘You know what you’re like with your leg.’

Derek smiled at her. ‘I’ll be fine, sweetheart.’ He leant back in his chair and stretched his arms out wide. ‘I feel like a new man.’

Getting on the camel had been the hardest part for both of them. The animals were trained to sit still while clueless tourists attempted to clamber on to the saddles, but then there was a moment as each camel stood up when you felt as though you were going to be pitched over and thrown onto the ground below. Carol shrieked loudly, much to the amusement of the Berber guides. But Derek took it all in his stride. He’d grown up on a farm, Carol reminded herself, feeling a little foolish at all the fuss she’d made.

They’d trekked for an hour, just as dusk was beginning to creep in across the flat horizon, giving the smooth, sandy slopes a reddish hue, lit up from the inside like paper lanterns. The desert light resembled nothing she’d ever seen: translucent, shimmering, as though the landscape had been freshly painted that morning and they were the first to walk through it.

Neither of them spoke for the length of the trek. They didn’t need to. They could sense, without talking, the calm happiness radiating from the other.

Later, they sat around a campfire and were given delicious couscous to eat in clay bowls. The Berber guides sang and played drums and encouraged the others to dance. Derek, exhausted from the ride, declined but Carol found herself wiggling and jiving and clapping her hands along with a pair of dreadlocked Scandinavian backpackers.

They slept in sleeping bags underneath the open sky. The stars, like everyone had said they would be, were brighter but Carol was most taken with the blueness behind them, which was clearer, deeper than at home. She sensed, if only she could reach out and touch it, the sky would feel like velvet against her fingers.

When they got back and printed out their photos, none of the images did justice to their shared memories. It is one of the things that makes her most sad, she thinks now, shifting uneasily underneath the duvet: the knowledge that there is no one else alive who would have experienced the same things as she had, with whom she could lean across the table and say, ‘Do you remember when … ?’ and be assured of a complicit smile, a nod of the head, a hand patted with familiarity and love.

Milton has stopped purring and fallen asleep. Carol, shifting her right leg, feels the jab and tingle of pins and needles. There is a moistness on her cheek. When she wipes at it with the back of her hand, she is surprised by the confirmation of tears.

Stupid, really, she tells herself. Stupid to cry over something that you can’t do anything about. She takes a deep, raggedy breath. She feels wide awake.

Admitting defeat, Carol looks at the alarm clock. It is one minute past five in the morning.

BEATRICE

Beatrice sits on a plastic bench in Trafalgar Square, waiting for the night bus to take her back to Bermondsey. Her legs are aching from an eight-hour shift of cleaning and folding, wiping and sponging. But the most tiring part, she finds, is the endless tramping up and down the long, windowless corridors that wind through the hotel, each one identical to the last so that it would be easy to forget where you were unless you had the room numbers to remind you. At work she misses the daylight most of all. The building seems hermetically sealed, kept alive only by recycled air. At Catholic school back in Uganda, she’d read a book by Virginia Woolf that talked about a hotel being a place where even the flies that sat on your nose had been on someone else’s skin the day before. That is how the Rotunda felt: arid, stuffy, loveless.

Normally, she didn’t mind it too much. She had been a waitress for a short time at the Hotel Protea in Kampala when it opened, serving ladlefuls of posho to rich tourists and Kenyan businessmen, and she had got used to the peculiar rhythm of hotel etiquette, the small niceties that would ensure a bigger tip. Once, a white man had left her a $50 note simply because she had brought him a citronella candle when the mosquitoes started buzzing. She had noticed him when he walked into the restaurant, skinny and worried-looking, wearing a beige money belt and two mushroom-coloured bands round his wrists that were meant to protect tourists from insect bites except they never did. His face had been flush with relief when she brought the candle. It gave Beatrice pleasure to see it and, for a brief moment, she had felt valued.

The Mayfair Rotunda was different because she worked behind the scenes and hardly ever got tips. Every day, she cleaned up after people, emptying their bins of used condoms, scooping out their hair from the plugholes, wiping the mirrors free of toothpaste flecks. It was draining work with minimal satisfaction. Beatrice liked things to look clean but then she would come back the next day and the room would be in disarray, as if she had never been, as if she didn’t exist.

Today had been particularly bad. The man in Room 423 … she shudders to think of him, pressed up so close against her she could feel the bristle of his stubble against her neck, could smell the rottenness of his breath. A coil of anger tightens in the pit of her stomach. How she hated men like that, men who believed they could take what they wanted and treat her like meat. She feels humiliated – not for herself but for them, that they could be so pathetic.

It is part of the job, she has come to realise. Bitter experience has taught her it is better not to resist but to be pliant, to allow them to do their silly business and get it over with. All the maids have the same problem: oversexed businessmen and adulterous foreigners. They tend to clean in pairs now, each one doing an adjoining room, so that if anything ever gets nasty or goes further than you want it to, you can scream out and bang the walls. Otherwise, if you’re not being asked to do anything you don’t want to, it can be a handy way to make extra money. Some of the girls have regular clients. Ewelina, from Poland, has a guy called Franz who comes over from Austria every month and has given her a Rolex watch. Beatrice is pretty sure it is fake but hasn’t the heart to tell her.

But the man today – the fat one in the robe, with hairs growing out of his nose – had not paid Beatrice. Once it was over, he’d tightened his belt, patted her on the bottom and leered at her, as though she had been a willing participant, as though she had wanted him to rub against her until he came. Stupid idiot. Beatrice had stared at him sullenly until he’d been forced to look away. She left the room without replacing his bottle of Chablis or drawing his curtains. She hoped she wouldn’t get in trouble for that.

She glances up at the digital display board to find out how long the next bus will be but it is broken so she has to sit here, patiently, waiting for a bus that might or might not come in the next half-hour. Waiting always seems to take so much longer when you don’t know how long it will be for, she thinks.

Mrs Dalloway, that was what the book had been called. It had seemed so far removed from her own experience and yet here she is, living in the same city it described, all those years ago. London wasn’t recognisable to her when she first arrived, despite having read so much about it. It was so much bigger than it had appeared on the page, so much more foreign, and although Beatrice should have been intimidated by this, she found instead that she took a kind of comfort from the hugeness of the city. She craved London’s anonymity, the constant reinvention of the streets, the silence of strangers that would, in any other context, have been unfriendly but which gave Beatrice space to breathe for what felt like the first time in years. She grew to love the overlooked beauty of the urban sprawl, the mismatched things you wouldn’t expect: the evening sunlight glinting against a steel girder on the Westway, the flat sheets of cardboard in the Waterloo subway where people slept huddled against the wind, the angry graffiti scrawled across a tube carriage, the flaking paint on advertising billboards, the tin-foil glimmer of a flickering street-lamp bulb against white birch bark. All of it felt to Beatrice like freedom.

She wonders what happened to her copy of Mrs Dalloway. She’d had to leave it behind, like everything else. She had been good at school. She wishes she’d been able to stay at university. Hard to remember now but she was studying to be a lawyer.

Across the street from her, there is a bulky shadow, hunkered down in the doorstep of a gentlemen’s outfitter’s. Her eyes adjust gradually to the dark and she realises the shape conceals a person, coddled tightly in a sleeping bag like a caterpillar snug in its cocoon. She can just make out the tip of a head, covered in a beanie hat, and a flash of skin beneath.

A drunken group of men in matching rugby shirts are trailing their way through the Square, slapping each other’s backs, loudly reciting the course of the evening to anyone who happens to pass within earshot.

‘Gagging for it, mate,’ she hears one of them shout. ‘Fucking all over you.’

Men. All after the same thing.

Up on the fourth plinth, Beatrice’s attention is caught by a dull strip of gold, picked out by the soft moonlight. She read in the Evening Standard that some artists have put an oversized boy on a rocking horse there, where normally you would expect to see grave-faced generals on horseback. She likes the idea of this. It makes her smile. There is something in the rocking-horse boy’s carefree attitude – one arm raised aloft in pure, unencumbered happiness – that reminds her of John, her little brother. He would be ten now, she thinks, and a heaviness tugs at her heart.

After a quarter of an hour, a Number 47 swings into view. Beatrice stands, feeling the stiffness in her shoulders and her calf muscles. She slips her Oyster card out of the fake-leather handbag she bought in the Primark sale last year and swipes it across the reader as the driver looks at her with tired eyes. He has light, youthful skin and wears a turban.

He nods at her, just the once, just to let her know that he feels the kinship of the night-worker, that he understands what it is to be one of those silent, uncomplaining people who clean rooms and drive buses and stack shelves and sweep streets into the early hours, who fuel this vast and friendless city, who feed its pavements and drains with sweat and silent submission, who stay hidden from view, passed over by richer residents who believe it all happens without any effort. She sees the bus driver convey this in the smallest inflexion of his head, in the tiniest upturn of the corners of his mouth. She wants to lean over and hold his hand, through the gap in the screen, simply so they can reassure each other that their blood runs warm, that life still pulses in their veins, but she stops herself – just. She smiles at him, then moves to the mid-section of the bus, sliding into the window-seat. The grey upholstery smells faintly of curry.

She leans her head against the glass and dozes, lulled by the juddering of the engine and the tinging of the bell for request stops. A man behind her is burbling to himself, talking in a stream of swear words and furious rejoinders to an imagined opponent. When she turns round, she sees he is swigging from a clear bottle, the neck of it protruding from a brown paper bag.

‘What are you looking at, you fucking nigger?’

Beatrice scowls at him. She is neither afraid nor shocked. You get used to such things, living in this city. It is the price you pay for safety. Besides, she has known worse abuse. The police at home had stripped her, forced her to walk through her village naked, then beaten her unconscious and left her on a concrete floor for days without food. Verbal abuse was nothing compared to that, to the humiliation of it.

And then there was the bigger pain, the one she chooses not to think about. Every time she senses the ugliness encroach, she makes herself imagine something else, something easy and sunny and smooth and clean-smelling like bleach in a bath-tub.

But sometimes, in spite of her best efforts, a flash of it will come back to her when she least expects it. She will hear the echo of a muffled scream while she is waiting to cross the road. The traffic lights will slip from amber into red and she will blink, forgetting where she is, finding herself back there, back in the faraway bedroom with his weight on top of her, a bead of his sweat dropping into her open mouth. Or she will be doing her weekly load at the launderette and she will suddenly remember the sour-cream taste of him in her mouth and she will have to sit down to gather her breath before she finds enough strength to continue pushing the clothes into the washing machine’s metal drum. Or she will simply be sitting, staring into space, and a splinter-clear piece of remembered past will slice into her mind’s eye and it will come back to her in its entirety: the force of it, the mass of him, the sickness that followed, the sense of betrayal and the shame she was angry with herself for feeling.

By the time Beatrice gets back to her flat on Jamaica Road, it is after 1 a.m. and her legs feel so heavy she can barely make it up the four flights of stairs. She slides her key into the lock with relief and goes straight to the electric heater to plug it in. Five years in this country and the cold still seeps into her bones.

Beatrice flicks on the light. Her flat is small and basic. There is a bed-sitting room with a single mattress that doubles up as a sofa and, to one side, a galley kitchen with two gas rings and a rickety grill. A grimy bathroom is situated behind the front door, the tiles spotted with black along the grouting, the shower head covered with a rash of limescale. A smell of damp pervades. When she hangs up wet clothes, they never seem to dry.

She rents the flat from Mr Khandoker, a Bengali man with heavy eyebrows and a permanently sour expression. Mr Khandoker owns several properties in this block, including the ground-floor porter’s flat which for months has had sagging cardboard pressed against empty window-frames. The cardboard has the word ‘Shurgard’ spelled across it in black block capitals and there is a rip at the base of the letter H through which Beatrice can sometimes catch a glimpse of movement: a rapid shifting through the shadows. She is never sure if the movement belongs to humans or rats and has never wanted to find out. It is better, in this block, to keep your curiosity to yourself.

Beatrice tried not to have too much to do with Mr Khandoker. He would turn up on her doorstep every week wearing a pale yellow salwar kameez dotted with oily stains which she assumed were from the spit and fizzle of a too-hot frying pan and she would hand over her rent money in worn £10 notes. Once, Mr Khandoker had offered to cash a cheque for her and when he returned with half the amount she had been expecting, he explained to Beatrice that of course he had to take interest and did she think he was a charity, handing out free money to worthy causes? No, he said, he was a businessman: one of Thatcher’s children.

She didn’t make that mistake again. And really, she has cause to be grateful to Mr Khandoker. He is nowhere near as bad as some of the private landlords Beatrice hears about. If she pays him on time, he leaves her alone.

She tries to remind herself of her luck but her mood remains heavy and listless. Beatrice makes herself a slice of toast under the grill, waiting for the corners of the white bread to curl with the heat. She butters the toast thickly from a tub of Flora then rips open a packet of sugar taken from the hotel and sprinkles it generously across the margarine. She bites into it, feeling the sweetness hit the back of her throat.

She wipes the crumbs from her mouth and sits on the bed to take off her clumpy flat shoes. Then, as she allows herself to do for a brief period every single night, she starts to cry. Her shoulders slump forward and she holds her head in her hands, her breath coming in gulps, tears dropping onto the bare floorboards. For five minutes, she summons all the stored-up pain and buried memory and lets the sadness wash over her. She will not let anyone else see her do this, ever. She will not allow them – the man in Room 423, the drunk on the bus, the police back home – to know her weakness. This sadness is hers alone. A precious, shielded thing.

After the tears, Beatrice feels lighter, more herself. She strips off her black clothes, hanging them carefully over the back of a wooden chair without creasing so that she can wear them again tomorrow. She is saving up to buy an iron.

As she goes through to the bathroom, she catches sight of the photograph of Susan, hanging on the wall from a crooked nail. Susan is smiling and the sun catches her hair. Her cheeks are sweating lightly – Susan always hated her cheeks and said they made her look fat but Beatrice loved them. They reminded her of plumped-up pillows. She’d taken the photograph in the café they went to on their first date, although, of course, neither of them would admit what it was until later.

In the photo, Susan is holding a glass of Coca-Cola with a straw. She always drank full fat, never Diet. Said she didn’t like the taste.

Beatrice kisses the tips of her fingers and lets her hand rest on the frame for a few moments. She has no idea whether she’ll ever see Susan again. The two of them had been split up, shortly after they’d escaped over the border to the Congo and paid a human trafficker to take them to the UK. It had cost Beatrice £21,000. She’d given the trafficker a plot of land her father owned. For the first and only time in her life, Beatrice had been grateful her father was dead and that she’d inherited a share of his fortune.

‘It’s not safe for both of you to go at the same time,’ the trafficker had said, chewing on one end of a cocktail stick. He had grubby fingernails and wore a T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off. ‘One of you only. The other will follow.’

They’d had no choice. Susan squeezed Beatrice’s hand.

‘You go,’ she said. ‘I’ll follow.’

‘But …’

‘You’re ill. You should go first.’

Beatrice was still recovering from the effects of the police beating. Her back was pitted with sores. The cuts on her arms were not healing. The corner of one eye was still tender from a brutal punch.

If she had been stronger, more like herself, she wouldn’t have let Susan stay behind on her own. She would have thought of something to keep the two of them together. Because what was the point of any of it if they were separated? Why had they fought so hard if they were going to end up alone?

They couldn’t be together in Uganda. They’d be arrested or murdered before the year was out.

‘Devil-child’, that’s what Beatrice’s mother had called her.

Her own mother.

She’d looked her eldest daughter in the eyes and said it.

But by then, Beatrice hadn’t cared, had only had space in her head for thoughts of Susan. She’d been obsessed, crazed. And Susan … she had been in love with her too, of that she was sure. And yet … she’d never followed her to London.

They’d made a plan to meet outside Buckingham Palace, which was silly looking back, but it was the only landmark they could be sure of. On the appointed day, Susan hadn’t come. For twelve hours, Beatrice had waited in the drizzle, hugging her too-thin coat closer with every passing minute, not wanting her teeth to chatter. Her toes had grown numb, her legs ached with standing but, almost from superstition, she refused to move. She would not shift from her spot by the dour-looking statue of Queen Victoria, facing the gates and the flag, where they’d agreed they would find each other. She told herself that, if she moved, even just an inch to the left or right, Susan wouldn’t come. She made a deal with God in her mind: if I stand here, stock-still, for another hour, Susan will appear.

Beatrice waited until all the tourists had dispersed and the light had changed from rosy pink to sludge-grey and then slipped into dark blue dusk. Still no sign of her.

She’d gone back the next day and the one after that, thinking to herself that Susan must have got delayed or confused or was trying desperately to get a message to her and that she should be there, just in case, to welcome her to this strange city. She should be there, as promised, to prove her love.

But Susan never came. The drafts folder in the email account they’d set up in case either of them needed to communicate remained resolutely empty. Days, then weeks, then months and Beatrice never got word from her. Something must have gone wrong. The trafficker had gone back on his word. Her family had found her and dragged her back to Uganda against her will. Or she’d been taken by the authorities and thrown into a detention centre and it was only a matter of time until they were reunited. Surely that was it? Surely there was some sense to everything they had been through, some reason why?

Beatrice turns away from the photo. It is not good to think like this. Too many futile thoughts and she will become depressed again and when she is depressed, she cannot work, cannot so much as crawl out of bed for fear of the sky collapsing on her and the heavy grey clouds pinning her to the floor. When she gets like that, everything acquires a new, horrifying edge. The world around her sweats with an alien light. Buildings and roads and cars slough off their skins and become unfamiliar beings and Beatrice can’t leave the flat through sheer terror of what she might find on the other side of the door.

She must not let that happen. She needs the money to survive. She needs to buy an iron.

She brushes her teeth thoroughly, splashes soap and water on her face, then gets into bed. Something crinkles under her pillow and, when she slides her hand underneath, she realises it is that weekend’s paper. She’d picked it up on a bus for the TV listings. Beatrice throws it to the floor. The pages fly open and a photograph catches her eye, along the bottom of page seven.

Her gaze snaps into focus. It is the man from Room 423. He is much younger in the picture but she recognises his piggy little eyes and florid cheeks. Beatrice props the paper up on her knees to read it more closely. It is an article about optimism written by a girl called Esme Reade and the photograph caption identifies the man as ‘self-made millionaire’ Sir Howard Pink.

A millionaire, Beatrice thinks. She narrows her eyes. He should have paid her.

Howard

Howard had bought Eden House in the mid-1990s, as London property prices were rocketing skywards and when just about anyone with a 5 per cent deposit could find themselves with an interest-free mortgage and a substantial duplex in Chelsea before the day was out. Eden House was a sprawling Victorian-era mansion behind High Street Kensington, built for a painter Howard had never heard of, at a time when moneyed bohemians liked to believe they were re-creating a pastoral idyll in the heart of the city. Luther Eden had aspired to be William Morris but had never quite made it. All that was left of him was a garish oil painting full of impasto brushwork and overenthusiastic representations of hellfire, hung in an ignored corner of Tate Britain.

As a result of Eden’s arts and crafts fascination, the house was set back in a large walled garden and dotted with stone-carved representations of forest nymphs and sprightly animals every which way you looked. A goat, curled in on itself with a dazed expression, was to be found at the intersection of a piece of guttering. A charming elfish figurine, complete with a quiver of arrows, peeked out humorously from beneath the window ledge of one of the first-floor bedrooms.

Inside, the house was a mess: higgledy-piggledy staircases, winding this way and that like a drunken Escher sketch, and leading to dozens of small rooms which Howard had attempted to knock through only to be told it was structurally impossible. The saving grace was the room on the top floor, once Eden’s studio, which had double-height ceilings and windows on three sides. Howard promptly converted it into the master bedroom, insisting that a four-poster bed with purple velvet swags be placed on a specially constructed platform in the centre of the room, much to the horror of the chi-chi interior decorator he’d hired who called the idea ‘de trop, Sir Howard, de trop’.

‘Darling, I am de trop,’ he’d replied. ‘Hadn’t you realised that?’

It is in this cavernous bedroom that Howard now sits, watching the Formula 1 racing on a giant flat-screen television that slides in and out of a plumply upholstered stool at the foot of his king-size bed. The detritus of his breakfast lies on a tray beside him: slivers of orange flesh lining an empty glass; a white linen napkin smeared with brown sauce; a rind of bacon on a glistening china plate (today is a non-kosher day, Howard has decided). He presses a button on the wall to get someone to clear it away.

As he does so, the phone on the console table at the side of the bed starts to ring.

‘Yep,’ Howard says, picking it up, eyes still trained on the screen.

‘Good morning, Sir Howard,’ says Tracy, her voice trilling. ‘And how are we today?’

‘Fine, fine.’

‘Just to remind you, Sir Howard,’ she continues, ‘that you have a charity luncheon.’

‘Fuck.’

Tracy lets the swear word pass. After twenty-odd years, she knows him better than most people. She laughs lightly.

‘I’ve told Jocelyn to have the car ready for 12.30.’

Howard glances at his Cartier. It is already 11.45.

‘Fuck.’

‘We discussed it last week, you remember,’ Tracy says, assuming the manner of a patient nanny. ‘It’s Action for Elephants. Imelda’s charity.’

‘Elephants?’ says Howard, incredulous. ‘Why the fuck do we care about elephants?’

Tracy replies as though he’s asked something incredibly insightful. ‘It’s a pet project of hers, Sir Howard. She went on holiday to Kenya and was moved by the plight of these – hang on, let me get the wording right –’ There is a rustling of papers on the other end of the line. ‘Ah yes, that’s it, “These beautiful and noble masters of the earth”. She’s got all her family involved – you remember, the Wallis-Parkers. Descendants of the man who founded the London Stock Exchange, I believe. They’ve got a granddaughter who’s a model, always on the front of Grazia – you know the one, I’m sure. You’d recognise her if you saw her anyway.’

‘Christ.’

‘The point being, Sir Howard, that Imelda knows everyone worth knowing,’ Tracy concludes crisply. And then, a touch more coldly, she adds, ‘Has Claudia remembered?’

Tracy and Claudia don’t get on. Claudia thinks Tracy is patronising and dowdy – a fatal combination. Tracy believes Claudia to be little better than an ageing tart with pert breasts (fake) and pound signs in her eyes (lasered).

Howard thinks they both have a point.

‘I’ll tell her,’ Howard says.

‘Also, Rupert’s asked me to get you to call him about setting up lunch with a journalist from the Tribune. He said you’d know why.’

‘Thanks, Tracy.’

‘Not at all, Sir Howard.’

He puts the phone down and feels a stirring in his nether regions. There’s always been something about Tracy, with her buttoned-up manner and clipped efficiency. She’d be a challenge, Howard thinks, unlike most women. Yet he’s never been brave enough to follow this thought through, perhaps because he knows the fantasy Tracy (voraciously available once you’ve mussed up the neatly bobbed hair) is more sexually appealing than the real one. And he’s intimidated by her too, if he’s honest. Nothing like a woman’s self-evident superiority to make your cock shrivel to the size of a deflated balloon.

He groans as he levers himself out of bed and pads across to the dressing room to put on a Paisley silk robe. He goes downstairs to try and find Claudia but after a futile few minutes, peeking in and out of half-hidden sitting rooms and squeezing his cumbersome frame through narrow passageways leading nowhere, he feels his impatience rising. The house had seemed so charming when Howard bought it. He’d believed it embodied a shambolic, semi-aristocratic way of life, unlike all those dreadful new-build mansions in Essex everyone expected a man like him to buy. But, after two decades of living here, he finds himself lusting after the clean lines of a modern house with a double garage and excellent central heating. He knows now that the business of acquiring good taste, as represented by Eden House, means comfort must sometimes be sacrificed. Still, he wishes he hadn’t bought the house purely on the basis of it looking like something out of a period drama. Howard has learned, through the years, that what he thinks looks nice is almost always the wrong instinct to pursue.

He includes his second wife in that.

‘Claudia!’ he bellows.

One of the Filipino maids scurries towards him and whispers discreetly that Lady Pink is in the gym before scurrying off again, duster in hand. He should know their names but Claudia gets through staff so quickly he loses track. Howard, wheezing, walks all the way down to the basement where he finally finds Claudia sitting, legs akimbo, feet pressed into cable handles that are attached to tightly stretched wires emerging from a space-age piece of equipment that looks like a shaking treadmill.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’

Claudia grimaces at him. Her dyed blonde hair is tied up, revealing an expressionless forehead smooth as eggshell thanks to regular injections of botulin administered by one of the most sought-after dermatologists in London.

‘Powerplate,’ she says, her voice vibrating, the tremors reminding Howard of a colleague who has just been diagnosed with early onset Parkinson’s. ‘It’s good for toning up and core strength. You should try it.’

‘No thanks.’ He looks at her, taking in for a moment the slinky lines of her legs, the unnatural buoyancy of her breasts under black Lycra, and he feels nothing. He analyses this lack of sensation and is depressed by it, by the recollection of how passionate he used to be, how crazy she used to make him. The mere sight of her red-lacquered fingernails around a champagne glass stem had been enough to send him into paroxysms of sexual obsession.

He’d met her at a vulnerable time, of course. Ada had just gone missing and his marriage to Penny, his first wife, was showing the strain. You couldn’t ever recover, as a couple, from something like that, from the hopeless uncertainty of unanswered questions when your only child goes missing.

All the police could tell them was that Ada, their beautiful, edgy, neurotic nineteen-year-old daughter, had walked out of her halls of residence at Birmingham University one Friday evening in February 2001 never to be seen again. That was it: the slender filament of knowledge they’d been left with after weeks and months of fruitless searching.

There had been a thorough investigation. Even now, eleven years on, Howard gets queasy thinking about it. The questions. The interviews. The fingerprints. The murky cloud of suspicion that hovered over the parents, no matter how obvious their devastation. The constant harassment from the press: phone calls, door-knocks, carefully worded entreaties pushed through the letterbox. He’d hired private detectives – eight of them, through the years. He’d spoken, personally, to her friends, lecturers, ex-boyfriends. He’d travelled up and down the country looking for something without knowing what. He’d taken the best part of a year off work. He couldn’t sleep, was drinking too much, jumped at the sound of a door slamming.

Penny wanted him to see her therapist, said he was showing all the signs of post-traumatic stress and that he needed help. Howard ignored her. He didn’t want to get better. He wanted to pick away at the wound for the rest of his life. He felt, in a way he realised was illogical, that this was what he deserved.

No one knew anything about what had happened to Ada that night. Or if they did, they weren’t letting on. There had been rumours of drug-taking and petty crime: a patched-together picture of their daughter that neither Howard nor Penny recognised. The police found tin-foil wraps and teaspoons burned brown in Ada’s room. One night, he’d looked up heroin on the internet and the resulting information had sent him into a dark spiral of depression. It was the closest he’d come to suicide.

After a while, he had to ask himself whether it was worth pursuing such hurtful lines of inquiry. Wasn’t it better, if Ada was never coming back, to remember her as they knew her? To remember the serious little girl who had to kiss each one of her teddies goodnight before she went to sleep.

Or the dark-eyed seven-year-old in a brown school uniform, her front teeth missing, rucksack straps worn sensibly over both shoulders.

Or the teenager who’d looked at him once across the kitchen table and asked, ‘Dad, what did you do in the war?’ and when he roared with laughter and said he hadn’t even been born, she’d blushed all the way from the base of her throat to the tip of her hairline.

The girl on her father’s knee, laughing uncontrollably as he tickled her, pleading with him to stop.

Because if they didn’t have memories, if they could no longer believe their cherished girl was who they thought she was, then what were they left with?

There were bleak times, now, when Howard thought it would have been easier to cope with had there been a body to bury, a focal point for their grief. As it was, he and Penny were left in limbo, increasingly unable to bear the sight of each other because it reminded them of the gaping hole in their hearts, the absence that could never be named, the loss that could never be laid to rest.

The decision to divorce was mutual. He’d met Claudia by then and his affair with her had been a deliberate, doomed attempt to counteract profound unhappiness with its antidote of undemanding superficiality. His lust for Claudia had always, peculiarly, been grounded in hatred for all that she stood for. He needed her brittleness, her dead-eyed ambition, her naked desire for status and wealth, as affirmation of what he had always suspected of himself: that he was worth no more, that if you drew back the curtain there was nothing there but a small boy, threading a needle, afraid of being found out.

Shortly after they’d got married at Chelsea Register Office, Claudia had encouraged him to pack away all of Ada’s belongings. He’d been keeping his daughter’s room like a shrine and would sit there in the evenings, as if inhaling the dust could bring him closer to the air she had breathed. The air she might still be breathing, for all he knew.

Claudia had been right that it was time to move on. She was a hard woman and, for a while, Howard found himself latching gratefully on to her unsentimentality as though it were a life-raft that would bring him, at last, to the edge of the wild ocean. But it hadn’t. He’d simply grown more distant from his second wife with every box of Ada’s belongings he packed and put into storage. He’d closed off his memories and shut down his thoughts one by one. Thinking, he realised, was too dispiriting. The only time he allowed himself to dwell on his grief and indulge his unhappiness was once a month, at the Mayfair Rotunda Hotel, when his bottled-up sadness made him act in unpredictable ways, surprising even to himself.

At the age of sixty-five, he had discovered a taste for grubby sexual encounters. Sometimes, he thought, the only way to forget about love was to bury it in spadefuls of self-loathing, to make oneself ultimately unlovable, to ensure one’s soul was inviolate. It would surprise almost everyone who knew him that Howard had such thoughts.

The exercise machine beeps and the humming vibrations halt abruptly. Claudia wipes a sheen of sweat from her brow and takes a long sip of water from a bottle of Evian, eyes closed, the lashes coated with several layers of black mascara.

‘Have you remembered we’ve got this charity lunch?’ Howard asks. ‘Imelda’s elephants.’

‘Yes, Howie.’ She raises her eyebrow patronisingly. ‘Have you?’

He ignores her. ‘Jocelyn’s coming with the car at 12.30.’

‘Great. I’ll slip into something less comfortable.’ She saunters across to him and plants a light kiss on his nose. ‘You should wear that tie I bought you. The green one.’

‘All right, sweetheart,’ he says, pacified by her brief show of attentiveness. He pats her on the bottom. Her buttocks are as hard as an overcooked piece of steak. ‘See you in a bit.’

Howard wends his way slowly back upstairs, his lungs getting tighter with each step. He must cut back on the cigars, he thinks. He should take a leaf out of Claudia’s book and try to get healthy.

When he gets to the bedroom, he sees the breakfast tray has been removed, the bed neatly made. Propped up against the pillows is a small white bear, paws sewn onto a red heart embroidered with the words: ‘I love you Daddy’. It is the only thing of Ada’s he could not face packing away.

Esme

‘Where are you off to?’ Sanjay says, sitting up straighter at his keyboard so that the top half of his head is visible over the Mac screen. His eyebrows are looking especially well groomed and Esme wonders if he’s had them waxed. Automatically, she runs a finger over her own unruly brows. They are due a plucking but she just hasn’t had time this week. She’s been frantically dealing with the fall-out from the nudists piece: dozens of complaints from assorted Women’s Institutes, cider-pressing clubs, donkey sanctuaries and the Malvern Link Fire Brigade, all of whom are eager to put the record straight about the good work achieved by sales of naked charity calendars.

Online, a vociferous war of words has broken out between anonymous commenters, one of whom has called for the boycott of the newspaper: ‘Until such time as the editor of the Tribune takes down this pornographic filth and signs a pledge never to post such images again where they can be seen by children or adults of a vulnerable disposition. I, for one, will be cancelling my subscription.’

This comment alone attracted forty-three ‘Recommends’. Below it, someone calling themselves ‘Satansrib’ has added: ‘I stopped buying the paper years ago. Too many darkies in the news pages for my liking. Political correctness gone mad.’

Another calling themselves ‘Arafat2000’ has expressed their opinion that the popularity of nude charity calendars is a symptom of some obscure Zionist conspiracy involving WikiLeaks and the failed extradition of Julian Assange.

Esme sighs. She knows she is meant to embrace reader interaction, but the thought of it makes her depressed. When she first started on newspapers, it was fairly easy to ignore the green-ink obsessives: those twenty-page letters from readers detailing government attempts to assassinate them through secret radio-waves emitted from television aerials and packets of aluminium foil. Nowadays, everyone spewed forth anonymously online and the resulting bile was left for ever suspended in the ether of cyberspace. There is one man – she assumes it is a man – who keeps posting that he’s heard ‘from friends in the media that Esme Reade only got where she is today on her knees’. She’d spoken to Dave about it and he’d been unexpectedly sympathetic and told the online moderators to take it down.

‘Don’t let it get to you,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to have a thicker skin.’

Which is true, of course, but she can’t help taking things like that to heart. When she told Sanjay, he’d bought her a latte. ‘If you’ve only got you this far, you’re obviously rubbish at giving head,’ he said, which made her laugh.

And then there’s all the social networking you’re meant to do. Real-life networking is bad enough: tepid white wine and exchanging business cards over the chicken satay skewers but now they’ve all got to be on Facebook and LinkedIn and editing sixty-second Instagram videos to ‘go viral’ and ‘get more page hits’.

‘You need to develop your own brand,’ the marketing department had told the Tribune newsroom during one of their god-awful ‘Multi-Platform Future’ briefings, hastily convened to introduce a dwindling group of weary old hacks to the idea of an iPad app and ‘data-blogging’.

She has only just set up a Twitter account and is baffled by what to do with it. Reducing the entire day’s news to a series of 140-character bullet points seems to her to be an exercise in pointlessness.

‘I’m taking Howard Pink to lunch,’ she tells Sanjay, buttoning up her jacket, bought from the L.K.Bennett sale two years ago and still wearing well.

‘Ooh, anywhere nice?’

‘Alain Ducasse at the Dorchester.’

‘Blimey,’ Sanjay says, sputtering on his coffee. ‘I thought that kind of wining and dining went out with the Ark. Who are they going to sack to finance it, one wonders?’ He slumps back behind his screen. ‘Well you enjoy it while you can. Some of us have real work to do,’ Sanjay adds with a meaningful twist of the mouth.

He’s joking, of course, but Esme wishes he didn’t always make her feel like such an amateur. Walking out into the atrium, she takes out her BlackBerry and logs on to Twitter. ‘Off 2 lunch,’ she types with her thumbs. 129 characters remaining. She chews her lip. ‘Meeting Sir Howard Pink.’ 104. ‘Hoping to persuade him to give me Fash Attack discount card!’ She hates exclamation marks as a rule but Twitter seems to require this kind of enthusiastic repartee. She still has 44 characters left and supposes she should add in some smiley-faced emoticon or semi-ironic hash-tag but she can’t be bothered. She presses down with her thumb and sends the Tweet.

In truth, she wouldn’t mind a Fash Attack discount card. Sir Howard’s chain of teen clothing stores has gone from strength to strength in recent years, after ingeniously persuading top-end designers to collaborate on cheaper ranges for the mass market. The one they’d done with Dolce & Gabanna had sold out in under twelve hours. There were pieces on eBay for triple the asking price within minutes of the doors opening on High Street Ken.

She’d never been particularly good with clothes. Her mother was always going on about Esme needing to look ‘put together’.

‘A good bag and good heels will lift any outfit,’ her mother likes to say. ‘Those are the key pieces worth investing in.’

Lilian Reade considered herself something of a sartorial expert, having once enjoyed a short-lived stint as a fashion model in the 1970s after her colleagues in the Ministry of Defence had encouraged her to enter Miss Whitehall. She’d won the competition and signed up with an agency where her most high-profile job had been modelling for a knitting pattern company based in Slough. But the way she talked about it, Lilian’s glory days had been a jet-set whirlwind of catwalks, male admirers and parties in St-Tropez.

‘Girls had more meat on them in those days,’ she is fond of saying. ‘No skinny minnies. And I was naturally slender so my agency kept telling me, “Lilian,” they said, “You’ve got to try and put some weight on, dear.” I mean, can you imagine, darling, can you?’

Lilian would give a light spray of laughter while Esme would shake her head dutifully. ‘No, Mum, no I can’t.’

There is a black-and-white newspaper clipping of Lilian as Miss Whitehall in a shockingly short houndstooth dress standing outside Big Ben, posing as if her life depended on it. Lilian is prone to fishing it out from a conveniently placed scrapbook any time she wants to make her daughter feel inadequate.

Esme thinks of it now as she hops on a bus to Hyde Park Corner, wincing as the skin on the back of her ankle catches against the back of her high-heeled shoe. Her mother, needless to say, swears by high heels but the soles of Esme’s feet are already prickling with heat. She hopes she won’t have to walk too far at the other end.

But by the time she makes it to the Dorchester – which is further up Park Lane than she had remembered – she is already five minutes late. Her ankles are red-raw, her toes uncomfortably squashed. A silver-haired Frenchman greets her at the door of the restaurant, eyeing her up and down as if she is a piece of second-hand furniture, before suavely sashaying across the plush carpet, leading her past a shimmering pillar of glass that falls from the ceiling like a divine shower curtain and then on to a corner table at which Sir Howard and his PR man, Rupert, are already seated.

‘Shit,’ Esme says under her breath. Turning up late is not a good way to start the Howard Pink charm offensive.

‘Sir Howard,’ she says, with as much confidence as she can muster. ‘I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting.’ She extends her arm. Sir Howard tries to stand but only gets three-quarters of the way out of his chair before his considerable stomach makes it impossible for him to continue without toppling over. He shakes her hand. His palm is cool and surprisingly smooth. A floral scent wafts from his open-necked shirt and she recognises it instantly as Roger & Gallet soap, of the kind once used by her grandmother.

‘You’re here now, I suppose,’ Sir Howard says, unsmiling. She can sense displeasure radiating from him.

Rupert leans towards her and introduces himself. ‘Good of you to come, Esme,’ he says, as though she is doing them a tremendous favour. He is well-spoken and conventionally handsome, like one of those men in the Gillette adverts. He looks much younger than Dave even though she knows they are contemporaries. She wouldn’t imagine the two of them as friends. ‘Dave said you’re one of his star reporters,’ Rupert continues, motioning to her seat. ‘I must say, I thought you’d be older. It’s a sign of age, isn’t it, when policemen and doctors start seeming like children …’

Esme notices Sir Howard staring fixedly at a point in the mid-distance throughout Rupert’s oleaginous patter. In person, the Fash Attack millionaire looks both smaller and more imposing than his photographs would lead you to believe. His face is dominated by a bulbous nose, framed by a receding hairline that is emphasised by a copious amount of gel, employed to slick the few remaining follicular wisps severely backwards. He is not wearing a tie and the collar of his white shirt lies open to reveal a sprouting of dark chest hair. For a titan of industry, he seems remarkably unintimidating but then she spots his eyes: brown and pinprick sharp, the pupils darting this way and that, trailing the waiters, taking in the other customers, analysing everything that comes into his field of vision. He is leaning his head against one perfectly manicured hand, the tips of his fingers so close to his nose he might be smelling them. He appears almost entirely uninterested in her.

‘I’ve been at the paper for eighteen months,’ Esme is saying as a waiter unfolds her napkin and casts it out over her knees. ‘Sir Howard, it’s very kind of you to take time out of your busy schedule,’ she adds, trying to get his attention. She is not used to middle-aged men disregarding her so flagrantly.

Sir Howard turns his head, lizard-like. His voice, when he speaks, is pointedly quiet.

‘I was led to believe you were going to apologise,’ he says.

Esme flushes. ‘Oh, yes, well, of course, Sir Howard. We – I mean, the paper – are really incredibly sorry for the oversight …’

Rupert waves her apology away with a flap of the hand. ‘It’s quite all right. I’ve explained to Sir Howard that it was the picture desk who messed up. Dave tells me it won’t happen again.’

‘It won’t,’ says Esme, although she has absolutely no way of ensuring this.

‘I hate that fucking picture,’ Sir Howard says, launching the swear word across the table just as the waiter arrives bearing three identical egg-shaped bowls.

‘To start the meal, we present to you an amuse-bouche of shrimp and lobster ravioli with a ginger consommé.’

There is a slight pause.

‘Well get on with it then,’ says Howard. ‘We haven’t got all day.’

The waiter looks suitably apologetic but then takes a small age pouring the consommé into each of their dishes from individual white jugs. Once this is done, he stands back for a moment as if awaiting plaudits for the culinary genius on show. When none is forthcoming, he gives a simpering smile, bows and clasps his hands together.

‘Bon appétit,’ the waiter says, retreating backwards like a royal footman.

‘Christ,’ says Howard. ‘I thought we’d never get rid of him.’

Esme laughs. He looks at her, his eyes suddenly twinkling.

‘I didn’t catch your name.’

‘Esme.’

‘Are you Scottish?’

‘No, my Dad was.’

‘Was?’ Howard fires back.

‘Yes, he died when I was eight.’

He puts his spoon down and seems genuinely taken aback. Esme is used to all sorts of reactions when she tells strangers: shocked intakes of breath, sympathetic squeezes of the arm, patronising assurances that ‘time’s a great healer’ but, perhaps because he’s had to deal with his own loss, Howard’s appears oddly sincere.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says finally.

Rupert grimaces and wrinkles his brow, to show that he is terribly sorry too.

‘It’s all right. It was a long time ago.’

‘You never get over something like that,’ Howard says. ‘How did he die?’ he asks bluntly.

‘Drink driving.’

‘Christ. Did they catch the bastard?’

‘They didn’t need to. My father was the drunk driver.’

Howard sits motionless, a spoonful of soup hovering dangerously over the tablecloth at a midway point between bowl and mouth.

She tries not to think of her father too much but now, having mentioned his death without exactly wanting to, broken fragments of an unasked-for memory coalesce in her mind, each tiny element shooting towards a central point like a series of magnetic filings. The image is of Esme, standing at the threshold to her parents’ bedroom when she was eight years old. She is watching, frightened, as her mother kneels in front of the bed and clutches at her hair, sobbing as she grabs fistfuls and pulls at it until small piles of ash-blonde litter the sheepskin rug beneath her knees.

‘Mummy?’ she says, this child version of herself.

Her mother stops crying, the effort of it causing her to hiccough. She turns her ravaged face towards Esme and tries to smile, her lips rubbed raw of lipstick, her cheeks veined with black, and it is this – the strangeness of her half-tragic, half-comic face, the disarray of her make-up – that affects her daughter most of all, that will stick with Esme for years.

Her memories of her father are more indistinct. A strong arm, lifting her onto his shoulders. A loud expressive laugh. Terror mingled with affection in his presence. A knowledge, even at that young age, that her father was good-looking, a charmer, a man others liked to be around.

At the time of his death, her brother Robbie was too young to know what had happened. For a few years after the police knocked on their door one drizzle-dark November night, interrupting Jim’ll Fix It, Robbie kept asking her what their father was like and she would try to answer as truthfully as she could.

‘He was fun,’ she said. ‘He told good stories. He made Mummy laugh.’

But, looking back, Esme is not sure, any more, how much of what she told Robbie was her true recollection and how much of what she remembers was a story she told herself from faded photographs, a desire to make the best bits real by saying them out loud. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know if it matters.

Esme smiles brightly, breaks off a lump of bread from the warm roll on her side-plate and butters it, re-positioning the knife in a precise, straight line. She taps the knife handle three times with her index finger. The number three, she has convinced herself, has mysterious talismanic qualities that keep her safe.

Howard has finished his soup. Rupert coughs drily and conversation is temporarily suspended. In the uncomfortable semibreve of silence that follows, it is Howard who speaks first.

‘You’ve read about my daughter, I suppose?’

Esme nods. She glances anxiously at Rupert who had made it abundantly clear on the phone that she was ‘on no account whatsoever’ to mention Ada Pink’s disappearance over lunch. But of course, she has read the press cuttings, has seen the smudged newsprint image of Ada Pink’s features staring out at her from bygone front pages: the same passport photo used again and again, depicting an unsmiling, frail-looking girl with hollow cheeks, a prominent brow and hair scraped back like a ballerina.

Esme had been in her first year at university when Ada Pink disappeared and the story of her vanishing had seemed little more than a backdrop to diluted Red Bull cocktails and pyjama-themed pub crawls. But now, meeting Ada Pink’s father, she is struck by the force of his unhappiness. After all these years, she thinks, his devastation is fresh as new snow.

She fiddles with the corner of her napkin.

‘She’d be about your age by now,’ he carries on. ‘Ada. That was her name.’ A pause. ‘Or is. I’m never sure what tense to talk in.’

He gives a bark of bitter laughter, shattering the strange atmosphere that has settled around the table. She wonders whether to say something about how sorry she is but, at the same time, doesn’t want to sound bogus. She has, after all, only just met him. She’s a journalist, not a friend.

‘Well, I suggest—’ Rupert starts, but Howard interrupts him. His gaze is glittery, unfocused; his smile twisted.

‘Let’s order some plonk, shall we, Esme?’ he says, picking up the heavy bound wine list. ‘Toast absent friends.’

She nods her assent, surprised, all at once, to find she has the beginning of tears in her eyes.

Over a starter of artfully arranged radishes and crisp lettuce leaves that costs more than anyone could reasonably have anticipated, an equilibrium of sorts is established. Howard, warmed up by a full-bodied Pauillac (he had been politely conscious of the fact that the Tribune was paying), allows himself to relax. He regales Esme with riotous stories about famous people he has met, including the time he hosted Elizabeth Taylor on his private yacht and she lost one of her diamonds in the shower.

She glances across the table at Rupert, wondering if they are teasing her for sport, but he appears perfectly relaxed. He catches her looking and grins wolfishly, as if implying he’s heard every one of these anecdotes a thousand times before. Rupert really is very handsome, albeit in a rather boring way: the male equivalent of a neatly ironed shirt. But there’s something about him she can’t quite ignore, as if his very blandness poses a challenge. She wonders what he’s like in bed. Filthy, she imagines. Probably has a thing about spanking.

At the end of the meal, they order coffee. It comes in pretty china cups. Sir Howard picks out three lumpen brown sugar cubes with his fingers and drops them in his coffee, causing a small splash of liquid onto the tablecloth.

‘Well, Esme, I don’t mind saying that I wasn’t looking forward to this lunch. Thought Rupert was a bloody idiot for setting it up.’

Esme stirs in her milk. She has already realised Sir Howard is the kind of man who doesn’t want to be interrupted in full flow.

‘But I’m glad to have met you, sweetheart.’

She swallows her indignation. With men like Sir Howard, you just had to go with it. That was how you got the best contacts. Journalism taught you all sexism was relative.

He leans over and pats her hand paternally.

‘We should be going,’ Rupert says. ‘We’re already late for our 2.30.’

‘Sure, sure,’ Howard replies, pushing back his chair. ‘Rupe, can you sort out a Fash Attack discount card for this young lady?’

‘Oh, really, there’s no need,’ Esme says, without meaning it.

‘Nonsense. You’ve given me a couple of hours’ diversion in the midst of an otherwise painful day of shareholder meetings and buying concerns,’ he says jovially. ‘It’s the least I can do. Besides, it’s all part of bolstering our relations with the press.’ He wags his finger at her. ‘No more unflattering photos, eh? Are we agreed?’

‘Agreed.’

He buttons up his jacket, which sits tightly over his waistband, then leans in to kiss her on both cheeks.

‘I’m sorry about your dad,’ he murmurs softly into her ear and she wonders at first if she has heard him correctly.

‘I’m …’ Esme grapples for the right words. ‘Sorry about your daughter …’ she says stupidly. Rupert glares at her from behind his boss’s shoulder.

Howard smiles. ‘I know,’ he says sadly. ‘I know.’

The two of them walk out of the dining room. Esme sits back at the table and signals for the bill. She is perturbed, without knowing why. Something about Howard Pink has affected her. Perhaps it was the obvious resonance of a father who’d lost his daughter meeting a daughter who’d lost her father. But it was more than that too. He seemed, in spite of all the wealth he’d accumulated, in spite of the anecdotes about yachts and diamonds, to be strangely unsure of himself; to be anxious, all the time, that someone would scrape back the veneer of success and see him for who he really was.

Esme could relate to that. Most journalists – and she was no exception – did what they did to prove somebody wrong, to validate their own worth by seeing their name in the paper. She wonders if she could persuade Sir Howard to talk to her. He had never given an interview about his daughter’s disappearance but perhaps now enough time had passed. Perhaps he’d just been waiting for the right person.

She can see it now: a sit-down interview across a double-page spread. Millionaire clothing retailer speaks for the first time about his daughter’s disappearance. Headline: ‘Sir Howard’s Private Torment – “Why I can never let go.’’’ There would be a write-off on the front page. Nominations for the Press Awards. Dave would be impressed. He’d take her out for a drink to celebrate. He’d look at her tenderly, push a lock of hair behind her ear and tell her he loved her and was leaving his wife …

‘Everything was to your liking?’ The waiter’s persistent solicitousness interrupts her reverie.

‘Yes, thanks,’ says Esme, embarrassed. She punches the four digits of her pin into the card machine with unusual force and hands it back to him. Get a grip, she tells herself. Having a crush on the news editor is such a cliché. The waiter returns with her receipt, folded into a charcoal-coloured card. She slips it into her wallet, along with a thick batch of other paperwork denoting taxi rides taken and train tickets bought in the name of work. She is overdue filing her expenses, put off doing so by the thought of the laborious new computer system they’ve brought in back at the office. Sanjay is convinced they’ve only done it to make it so difficult that no one bothers.

A sluggish pall descends on her as she walks out of the restaurant, back through the lobby to the revolving doors and past the top-hatted attendants on the steps outside. Hotels are such peculiar places, she thinks, full of people not feeling entirely comfortable, either because they’re passing through on business and don’t want to be there or because they are spending a small fortune on ‘getting away from it all’ and are worried about not appreciating everything enough. She is relieved, when she gets outside, to breathe in the fresh air again, to see the tall, budded trees of Hyde Park.

On her way back to the office, she tries not to think of her father or the lost Ada Pink, staring out at her with yearning eyes. Instead, Esme takes out her BlackBerry and updates her Twitter feed. ‘Stuffed after lunch at Alain Ducasse,’ she types with a breeziness she does not feel. ‘Feet killing me!’

Carol

Carol is lying on a massage table having her shoulders pummelled by a nice girl called Stacey. The problem is she has forgotten how to relax. She used to love being pampered. Once a year, for her birthday, her daughter Vanessa would arrange a spa day in a hotel in the New Forest and the two of them would get the train down from Clapham Junction, wheeling their overnight suitcases and anticipating the fluffy robes, a haze of essential oils and glasses of iced water delicately flavoured with cucumber slices.

Whoever came up with the idea of putting cucumber in jugs of water, Carol always wondered. Or lemon, for that matter. Because you wouldn’t dream of flavouring water with banana slivers, would you? Or carrot sticks. But somehow lemon and cucumber worked.

The massage had been Vanessa’s idea.

‘Do you good, Mum,’ she said on the phone. ‘You deserve some R&R.’

Carol was sitting in the front room, staring at her slippers. She hadn’t got dressed yet, even though it was past ten in the morning.

‘R&R? What’s that when it’s at home?’

There had been a suppressed exhalation on the other end of the line.

‘Rest and relaxation, Mum.’

‘Oh. Right.’

But since Derek died, Carol has found it almost impossible to stop thinking. She’ll be drinking a cup of tea in front of Bargain Hunt and she’ll notice that all her muscles are tightly wound, her shoulders up by her ears, and instead of concentrating on the discovery of some valuable ashtray in the attic of an old-age pensioner from Basingstoke, her head will be filled with the image of a coffin and service sheets and dying flowers and she’ll realise that she hasn’t been relaxing at all. She seems to have lost the knack.

‘Relax, Mrs Hetherington,’ the therapist says but the more Stacey tells her to relax, the less she feels able to. Carol’s face is pressed through the cut-out circle on the massage table, like one of those seaside paintings where you pose for photos by peering out from underneath a frilly bathing cap or a pair of donkey ears. The hole is slightly too small to contain her features and she can feel the edges of the lavender-scented padding digging into her cheeks. She wonders if there will be marks there when she turns over. Her skin has lost its elasticity of late. She can be pottering around the supermarket, picking up things for lunch, and the side of her cheek will still be stippled with red-pink indentations from where the sheet left its mark over an hour earlier.

Stacey folds the towel neatly to one side, uncovering Carol’s leg and prompting a spray of goose-bumps to prick up along her calf. Carol is worried that her feet are ticklish and she won’t be able to stop twitching when the therapist touches them.

‘Relax,’ Stacey says. ‘Just think of something soothing.’

Carol tries to imagine faraway beaches and gently lapping waves but instead finds her mind wandering. As Stacey’s fingers knead against her calf muscles and the herby, sweet scent of the aromatherapy oil floats around the room, she wonders whether the amount you love someone dictates the nature of their death. Whether, if you loved a person – if that person made you happy and you got to enjoy life more because of them – the punishment for this is to make their death as cruel and painful as possible. A cosmic joke, she’d heard someone call it. Like karma, but inverted.

She’d never believed in God. If He existed, Carol thought, He was a right old so-and-so. All those starving children and poor people with AIDS. What kind of person would allow that?

Whereas she’s noticed that if someone hasn’t been loved at all and has brought nothing but pain and misery to those around them, they seem to slip easily into oblivion at the end of their lives with the minimum of fuss. Because there’s no one to mourn them, is there? And Carol is for ever being told – by magazines, by Sunday-morning TV shows, by well-meaning friends who bring her spiritual self-help manuals called things like The Day After Grief: Finding and Overcoming your Inner Sorrow’ – that there is a sort of dignity in mourning; that by accepting the death of a loved one, you accept your own mortality and come to a greater understanding of life. That’s the theory, anyway.

Load of old claptrap, Carol thinks.

She only poses the question because Connie’s husband Geoff has just died peacefully in his sleep of old age and a nastier, more narrow-minded little man you couldn’t imagine. Even Connie couldn’t wait to be rid of him by the end. And yet for all Geoff’s vindictive, ignorant and penny-pinching ways, he had been spared the wretchedness of a terminal illness. No incontinence nappies for him.

‘It was a blessing,’ Connie said at the funeral. It was also, Carol couldn’t help but feel, hugely unfair.

Because Derek … well, Derek was the shining love of her life, a man with whom she spent forty-odd years of married contentedness, with whom she never had to explain, only to be, a man who still made her laugh, who could make everything all right just by squeezing her shoulders and calling her ‘pet’.

Oh, he had his failings, of course he did. He snored loudly, left teaspoons on the counter, never wanted to go to the cinema because ‘it will come out soon on video’, but now that he’s gone, Carol sees these petty irritations as lovable quirks. His snoring used to keep her awake. Now she finds she can’t sleep without it.

Everyone loved Derek: the postman whose name he remembered, the shop assistant at Sainsbury’s on Garratt Lane whose grandchildren he would always ask after and the dozens of friends and colleagues he’d got to know in and around Wandsworth through the years. It wasn’t just old people either. Their grandson Archie could spend hours building model aircraft with him in the back room.

The two of them were like cuttings from the same plant. She’d catch them sometimes, heads bent over a Spitfire model in the dusky half-light of a weekend evening, and when she asked if they wanted a sandwich, they would look at her in exactly the same way – heads slightly to one side with a quizzical squint of the eyes.

‘I’ll take that as a no then,’ she would say, closing the door behind her, unable to stop herself from smiling.

Even the kids on the council estate opposite would nod at Derek in the street. She never understood how he did it, how he made friends without seeming to try. The day of the funeral, a couple of them came round and rung the bell at Lebanon Gardens while the wake was in full swing. Carol could make out the looming shadow of two hooded figures and had been afraid to open the door at first. She kept the chain on and, peering through the gap, saw two bulky teenagers standing on the front step, wearing bright yellow-and-black trainers and jeans that seemed to be falling off their waists.

‘Mrs Hetherington?’ one of them said and his voice, when he spoke, was timid. He had chubby cheeks and his right eyebrow had thin stripes sliced through it. They must have been done with a razor, Carol thought.

‘Yes,’ she said, bracing herself. She honestly believed they were going to mug her. There’d been a gangland murder on the estate last year and she kept expecting to see them pull a knife.

‘We wanted to pay our respects,’ said the one with the fat cheeks, the phrase sounding stilted, as though he had been told what words to use.

His friend hung back, face shrouded by a baseball cap pushed low on his forehead. ‘Sorry for your loss.’ He handed over a beautiful bunch of hyacinths, wrapped tightly in Sellotaped brown paper. In the fleshy part between his thumb and forefinger, there was a small tattooed circle: half black, half white.

‘Thank you.’ She was so surprised she forgot to ask them in.

She still feels bad about that. She knows Derek would have ushered them in, told them to join everyone in the front room and got them to tell him about their lives. He was like that. No prejudice. Treated everyone the same.

When Derek was diagnosed with prostate cancer, it was the most awful thing that had ever happened to her. They were worried about how Vanessa would take it, of course, and about Archie, about how they would cope, but mostly they were pitched into a feverish, gnawing anxiety about what was going to happen when the two of them were parted. They had grown so used to each other, you see. Never been apart for more than a week.

‘Just relax, Mrs Hetherington,’ Stacey says again, her voice soft against the rising and swelling of tinkling water and rainforest sounds, piped in from the iPod in the corner of the room. ‘You’re carrying a lot of tension.’

As if tension could be carried. As if it were a bag of shopping, Carol thinks.

Derek had died in hospital. They hadn’t wanted it to end like that and she still can’t forgive herself for it. He’d asked to be discharged so that he could come home and die in his own bed and Carol had rushed back to Lebanon Gardens to get the house ready. She’d wasted her time doing silly things: putting flowers in a vase on the chest of drawers upstairs, cleaning the windows so that he’d have an unobstructed view of the tree-tops outside, buying a special tin of Fox’s chocolate biscuits even though he was hardly eating by then.

Why had she done all that? Why hadn’t she realised that the time they had left was so precious that she couldn’t afford to waste a single second of it?

Because, by the time she got back to the hospital, Derek had died. The Irish nurse, the nice one with the curly hair and fat arms, had been the one to tell her. And although, of course, she’d been expecting it, had been told again and again that Derek’s illness was terminal, that the chances of recovery were nil, that she had to prepare herself for the worst … when it happened, she was shocked.

‘He’s gone,’ the nurse said. ‘He died half an hour ago.’

Carol’s stomach curved in on itself, punched by some invisible hand. The beige-green hospital walls seemed to slide towards her, squeezing the air out of the strip-lit corridor. She tried to walk towards Derek’s bed but, instead of the solidity of the linoleum floor that she had been expecting, her foot slipped into nothing and she felt herself spiralling into space. The nurse steadied her, sat her down and told her to take her time but she couldn’t rest. She was desperate to see Derek, to hold his hand and tell him she loved him. Tell him she was sorry for not making it in time.

She pushed the nurse away, refusing the offer of sugary tea. She walked hurriedly down the corridor, balancing one hand against the wall to keep herself from falling. She convinced herself that if she got there quickly enough there would be something of him still alive, a hovering sense of Derekness, a lingering warmth in his heart like the coal-hot embers of a night-time fire. If she got there quickly enough, surely his soul would be waiting for her, resting for a while by the hospital bed until she arrived? She would still be able to feel Derek, wouldn’t she? Her love was too strong for him just to disappear, wasn’t it?

But when she saw him, she had to put a hand over her face to stop herself from crying out. She’d never seen a dead person before, never understood what it meant.

Because the figure in the bed looked like Derek but the essence of him, all those tiny movements that she’d never noticed before – the flicker of a look as she entered a room, the almost indiscernible curl of the lip, the placid sound of his inhalations, the steadiness of his touch as he reached out to take her hand – all of them had stopped, just like that. She realised – for the first time, she properly took it in – that she would never see any of it again.

And outside, birds cheeped, sirens sounded, a wind continued to blow and the world went on as normal without realising what had been lost. The enormity of it.

She stared at him and although she should have been devastated, although the tears should have been running down her cheeks, she caught herself thinking: So this is what a dead body looks like.

It was the shock, of course. It took a while to sink in.

Derek lay on his back, his mouth gaping open to reveal a black, still hole. His eyes were closed, the lids thin and papery. His skin had acquired an unnatural, waxy sheen. Liver spots crept across his naked scalp like lichen on a rock. She wanted to take his hand and yet something stopped her. This strange, stony presence was no longer her husband.

Part of her felt relief. She had been worried about burying the body, sending it into the ground and crushing the frail bones under 6 foot of soil. But she saw now that the physicality of Derek was relatively unimportant. It was what had been cradled within that counted.

‘OK, Mrs Hetherington, if I could just ask you to turn over onto your back …’ The therapist’s voice interrupts her thoughts. She shakes the idea of Derek from her mind. It is not good for her to dwell on the past, on what can’t be changed. Vanessa has been encouraging her to pick up her hobbies again and ring round a few of her Book Club friends. Her daughter has started staring at her sideways, with a crinkle above her nose and a concerned gaze. It is as if Vanessa is looking after her, whereas it should by rights be the other way round and Carol can’t get used to it. She feels patronised and quietly furious when she knows Vanessa is only trying to help.

‘It’ll do you good, Mum,’ has become her regular refrain. It’s what Carol used to say when Vanessa was a teenager, lolling about on the settee complaining she was bored, flicking through the TV channels even though it was a blazing sunny day outside.

Whenever she remembered the 1970s, it always seemed to be hotter.

‘Why don’t you go and play in the park?’ Carol would say. ‘Do you good.’

She’s dreading Archie becoming a sullen, moody adolescent. At twelve, he’s just on the cusp of it, but so far he is still the shiny happy boy he has always been. She worries, with Derek gone, that he’ll feel the lack of a male role model in his life. Vanessa is a single mother. Carol has never met Archie’s father – has never so much as heard mention of his name.

The main thing is that he seems to have settled into his new secondary school. Vanessa showed her Archie’s first report the other day and Carol couldn’t make head nor tail of it.

‘He’s got a lot of Cs, hasn’t he? That’s not like him.’

Vanessa bit her lip. She was impatient by nature, but her mother’s slowness always seemed to set her even more on edge than usual. ‘It just means he’s performing at a competent level. They don’t give As and Bs any more.’

‘Don’t they?’

‘No, Mum. It’s all numbers now. And a 7 is really good.’

She looked at the report more closely. When she held it, her fingers trembled slightly. She’d noticed the shaking more lately. She steadied her hand. There were 7s all the way down the page. She grunted, satisfied. That was her Archie.

The therapist is smoothing the palms of her hands across Carol’s collarbone, sweeping them up all the way to her earlobes and back again. It feels good when she pulls firmly at the base of Carol’s neck, easing the muscles gently towards her and then releasing.

‘Oh that’s lovely,’ Carol murmurs.

The therapist laughs lightly.

‘Good. Just relax into it.’

She takes a few deep breaths, trying to concentrate on the pleasurable sensation of the massage while at the same time worrying that her inability to relax means she is not enjoying it enough. She wonders if she could set Vanessa up with somebody. Speed-dating, wasn’t that meant to be the latest thing? Maybe she should suggest it to her. She didn’t want Vanessa to see her as a new project: putting her mother back together again in much the same way as she might renovate one of her flats.

And then, the solution to the problem comes straight into her mind, bubbling up to the surface like a lifebuoy. Alan, she thinks, triumphantly. Her next-door neighbour. He seems nice enough – a bit quiet, but that might just be shyness. Why had she never thought of it before? He’d be good for Vanessa, she is sure of it.

Alan had moved in over a year ago after coming down all the way from Glasgow to make a new life for himself. He’d never been married, he told them when they first met. He was unloading furniture from the back of a rental van at the time. A long-term relationship had just broken up, he explained – even though they hadn’t been prying.

‘Oh I’m sorry,’ Carol said.

He smiled at her, bending his head so that he did not meet her eyes. His cheeks blushed pink.

‘Not to worry,’ he said, his voice accented with a vague burr that she couldn’t place. ‘These things happen.’

He had strong forearms, Carol noticed. She liked arms: it was one of her things. Alan’s forearms, visible beneath a rolled-up sleeve of a red-and-black lumberjack shirt, were tanned and thick veins ran down from his elbow to surprisingly fine-boned wrists. She discovered later, once she’d got to know him a bit, that he was a keen amateur gardener, which explained the tan and the muscle definition. Derek used to tease her about her crush on ‘that fancy-man from next door’ but he didn’t mind. Within a week of Alan moving in, he was giving their new neighbour hydrangea plant cuttings for his flower beds and unwanted advice on the acidic soil content of SW18.

‘You want to watch that, Alan,’ he said one morning, leaning across the garden fence. Alan nodded silently, rubbing the back of his neck, not wishing to be rude because he probably knew it all already. Derek shrugged his shoulders and left him to it.

‘Not a talker,’ he said, on coming back into the house, and that had been that.

How old would Alan be, Carol asks herself as the therapist moves from her neck to her scalp, pressing her fingers down, twisting her hair this way and that so it will probably be an awful mess when she leaves. Mid-forties perhaps? It was so difficult to tell nowadays. He wasn’t a looker, that’s for sure. His face had a pudgy quality, like an uncooked loaf of bread, and his eyes were on the small side. But then looks don’t last, as she was always fond of saying. Vanessa’s at the stage in her life where she should be settling for someone reliable and kind.

Yes, that’s what she’ll do. She’ll invite Alan round for a cup of tea, one of the days that Vanessa just happens to be popping in. With this resolution made, Carol feels happier. For the first time since she stripped down to her knickers and lay on the massage table, she starts, cautiously, to relax – just like she’s been told.

Beatrice

On Monday morning, Beatrice wakes up with a lovely, leaping sensation in her stomach. It is her day off: twenty-four hours of concentrated freedom without a single bed to make or toilet bowl to clean. She smiles at herself in the bathroom mirror as she slicks her hair back with wax and rubs cocoa butter into her elbows, making them soft. Then she catches herself grinning like an idiot and stops abruptly. Her teachers always said she had a happy nature but it seems silly to smile when there’s no one else around.

‘Beatrice always looks on the bright side,’ one of the nuns had written in a school report. She remembers her father had been pleased by that.

‘It’s good to accentuate the positives, Beatrice,’ he said. He was wearing his fancy suit and tie. ‘Life is a big adventure.’

She looked up at him, blinking. She loved her father but was also in awe of him. He was so tall, she thought, that his head almost touched the sky. She was too shy to answer him that day and hid her face in her hands, glimpsing at the retreating shape of him through interlaced fingers. He laughed and walked out of the door, his slim briefcase swinging from one hand. In all of her memories, he is laughing.

He died when she was fifteen of an illness she hadn’t known the name of until she was older. And even then she hadn’t understood. They said it was sexually transmitted, the thing that made him lose weight until his flesh had sunk into his bones, that scarred his conker-smooth skin with scab-sore marks the texture of sandpaper.

AIDS. An odd label for a disease, she always thinks, when, according to her big, red English dictionary, ‘aid’ is a synonym for ‘help’.

Would her father still have loved her had he lived to know the truth of who she was? When the police discovered her and Susan in bed together, tipped off by a surly-faced villager, was her mother right when she said Beatrice had brought disgrace on the family? Would her father have disowned her too?

She will never have the answers. She likes to think he would have understood but people can surprise you. Even the ones you think you know better than anyone. Even the ones who are meant to love you.

She pours a sachet of Mayfair Rotunda instant coffee into a mug of boiled water for breakfast, then gets dressed in deliberately bright colours. After ten days of black uniform, Beatrice is desperate for a change. She picks out a neon-yellow T-shirt from TK Maxx and jeans that she found in a charity shop. They are a bit too tight, but the T-shirt is long enough to cover the slight flabbiness of her stomach. She zips up a red puffa jacket because she knows, even though it is sunny outside, she will still feel the cold. It is one of the things she fears she will never get used to in this country. That and the dark evenings. When she first arrived in London, at the B&B in Manor Park arranged by the trafficker, it had been winter. She did not know what to think when the sun disappeared at 4 p.m. and the temperature dropped. It was as if God had turned off the lights.

It had taken her a long while to acclimatise to the darkness and the damp. She felt as though every breath she took of London air was soaked through with a moisture that blocked her nose and thickened her throat. And then there had been the fog. Beatrice had read about the city’s opaque, settling mists in Dickens, but still her first experience of London fog took her unawares. When it had swept up from the banks of the Thames, rolling through the streets like smoke, she had felt unanchored from her surroundings, cocooned in a strange cotton-white numbness that served only to make her feel more alone. The fog seemed to settle in her chest. She had wheezed for days and when she coughed it sounded as if a small rattling ball had lodged itself in her windpipe.

Beatrice grabs her Primark bag and puts her wallet, the newspaper cutting and her mobile inside. As she leaves, she presses her fingers against the frame of Susan’s photo, and checks her fingertips for dust, automatically. Clean as a whistle, she thinks, proud of the colloquial turn of phrase.

Once outside, she walks up the Jamaica Road to a small stretch of shops: a chemist, an internet café, a Halal grocer and a Chinese takeaway. When Beatrice makes extra tips from work, she likes to treat herself to Peking duck pancakes. Just thinking of the sweet-salt taste of the glutinous plum sauce and the cooling slivers of spring onion is enough to make her mouth water. She doesn’t have enough money this week. Tonight, it will be her regular meal of white bread smeared with tomato ketchup, accompanied by a few Tesco Value chicken nuggets on the side. She isn’t much of a cook and doesn’t particularly like the nuggets but she knows it’s important to eat protein to keep her strength up. And that’s the cheapest way she can do it. She thought she’d miss Ugandan food when she first came here but her taste buds have changed. Or maybe it’s just that she doesn’t want to be reminded of home, of her mother’s matoke and juicy pineapples and the nutty sweetness of a freshly picked banana. Better to have no memories. Better, after everything that happened.

Beatrice pushes the door of the internet café. Manny, a tall, bespectacled Somalian, is standing behind the counter, tinkering with a screwdriver and a laptop. He glances up when he hears the door.

‘Hey, Beatrice! How are you doing, my friend?’

He leans across the counter and does his special handshake: bent fingers, knuckle pressed against knuckle, a sweep of palm. His hand is dry. Beatrice smiles. Manny was the first friend she made in Bermondsey and has been a fund of useful information about housing benefits, community grant applications and government welfare schemes over the years. He has an extraordinary aptitude for making sense of complicated things, whether it be a computer chipboard or an eight-page form from the council, needing to be filled out in block capitals. It was Manny who had given her a mobile phone, handing it over one day with a sheepish smile.

‘I can’t take this, Manny …’ Beatrice had said.

‘Sure you can, sister.’

‘Where did you get it?’

Manny had ignored her and she knew, without him having to say anything more, that she was not to ask too many questions. In the end, she’d accepted the gift gratefully. One day, she knew, Manny would call in the favour. She was ready for it.

‘I’m good, Manny, good. How’s business?’

‘Oh you know what they say: Can’t complain. Mustn’t grumble.’ Manny throws his head back and roars with laughter, his mouth wide open so that she can see the startlingly red tip of his tongue. ‘How’s the hotel?’ he asks.

Beatrice shrugs.

‘Hey, listen. Do you mind if I use a computer?’

‘Be my guest,’ Manny says, gesturing towards the nearest terminal. ‘Number 4. Anything I can help you with?’

‘No. Thanks, Manny.’

He stares at her lazily. His pupils are dilated and his breath smells of marijuana smoke. She always wonders how much of Manny’s laid-back demeanour is the result of generous self-medication. Sometimes, on her way to a late shift, she’ll see Manny sitting on the low wall just outside the tube station, brazenly smoking an enormous spliff without any concern that he might be seen or arrested. He gathers waifs and strays around him, greeting them all with the same approachable smile, and if you didn’t know him, you’d think he was the nicest, softest person you’d ever seen. But she’s seen Manny turn, his temper gleaming and rapid as a flick-knife. You didn’t want to get on the wrong side of him. So far, Beatrice had managed not to.

For some reason, Manny had liked her from the start. She’d walked into his internet café one day on the edge of tears because she’d just heard her refugee status was up for review and needed to do some research but was struggling to understand the Home Office’s impenetrable bureaucratic language.

‘Why are you so sad?’ he’d asked, as if it were the most natural question in the world. And because it was the first time in months that a stranger had asked her how she was, the whole story had tumbled out of her.

Almost the whole story.

She hasn’t told Manny she is a gay. She still hasn’t been able to find the words. Suppression does that to a person. Besides, she doesn’t kid herself: she knows that, if Manny is attracted to her, he will be more willing to do things for her. She is caught, internally, between thinking this is a dishonourable way to behave and believing, bitterly, that it is the least the world owes her. If she is to be forced to live a lie about her sexuality, Beatrice reasons, then at least she will live it to her own advantage.

None of this is Manny’s fault, of course. But he is a man. An African man. She has heard him talk about women. Sometimes, when she is in the internet café, the electronic bell will ring and it will be one of Manny’s many friends. They will saunter up to the counter, these friends, with their sleazy smiles and lazy gaits, with their hair close-cut to their scalps, their muscles slicked with the sweat of the night before. They look like young boys playing dress-up in jeans that are too big for them, slung low on their waist with their underpants on display for anyone to see.

These friends do not notice Beatrice sitting there, like a small, unimportant shadow of someone who used to be. Nor do they acknowledge the sullen, tattooed girl in the corner, tip-tapping on the keyboard with gel-tip nails to update her Facebook page. They do not notice the woman in a hijab, silently typing up her CV. They do not register any woman who has not expressly packaged herself to attract male attention. Instead, these friends walk straight up to Manny who stands there, like a king awaiting his courtiers, his face emerging from behind the refrigerated drinks shelves that are always optimistically stocked with faded cartons of exotic fruit juice: lychee, mango, papaya.

Yes, Beatrice has heard Manny talk about women: she has heard his dirty laughs and his whispered jokes and the slap of the palm of his hand in a congratulatory high-five. She knows men like Manny, who need sex and power like most people need bread and water. Even his name is a distillation of masculinity. She wonders, occasionally, whether Manny is a nickname, given to him by an admiring coterie of young men in acknowledgement of his sexual prowess. Or perhaps it genuinely was the name his parents gave him and the way he turned out was a fateful coincidence. ‘Nominative determinism’, they called it. She’d heard a discussion about it on the breakfast radio after a man called Mr Diamond had been forced to step down from his position as head of a failing bank, only to be replaced by a colleague called Mr Rich. She smiles at the thought of this.

‘Now that’s what I like to see!’ Manny reaches into the refrigerated shelves and hands Beatrice a carton of lychee juice. ‘A lovely smile on a beautiful woman.’

He winks. She rolls her eyes, accepts the juice and takes her seat at the computer.

‘Hey, Beatrice, one day you’ll realise we’re meant to be together.’

‘Yes, Manny. And one day pigs will take to the sky with wings.’

He guffaws then disappears into a back room to turn up the radio. A thumping reggae beat rings out just as Manny re-emerges and starts to dance, swaying his hips suggestively, eyes half-closed as he clasps an imaginary partner to him. An unlit joint is tucked behind his ear. She can’t help but laugh. Yet she tilts the screen ever so slightly away from the counter so Manny can’t see what she’s doing. There are elements of her life that Beatrice knows it would be wiser to keep private. Howard Pink, for instance. That was something she wanted to do on her own.

She logs on to the computer, double-clicking on the internet icon. She types ‘Sir Howard Pink’ into the Google search bar. Rapidly and methodically, she clicks through the relevant documents, assimilating information. It feels good to be using her brain again. She finds out that Sir Howard had started in business at the age of fifteen, selling clothes from a market stall. At twenty-one, he’d bought his first shop. By thirty, he was a millionaire. By thirty-five, after an aggressive corporate takeover, he had bought out the Paradiso Group of clothing shops. He was routinely in the top fifty of the Sunday Times Rich List, with an estimated fortune of £3.3 billion. He has a reputation for throwing lavish theme parties, which turns up a number of unexpected images: Sir Howard in an Hawaiian shirt and grass skirt on his fiftieth birthday, celebrated on a private Greek island with six hundred of his closest friends (and a performance by Stevie Wonder); Sir Howard laughing riotously while dressed up as a medieval pope; Sir Howard sporting a giant sombrero accompanied by an unsmiling blonde woman in a nurse’s outfit. Then there was all the stuff about his daughter, Ada, who had gone missing at the age of nineteen in mysterious circumstances. Beatrice skims over these stories. They aren’t what she needs to focus on. Everyone has sadness in their lives. It does not elicit her sympathy.

After twenty minutes or so, she has all the information she needs, including an email address for the chief executive’s office at Paradiso. She opens up a new Microsoft Word file. The screen fills with a blank white page, like a fresh sheet pulled tight on a hotel bed.

‘Dear Sir Howard,’ she writes in Arial 12-point. The animated paperclip pops up in the corner of the screen. ‘You look like you’re writing a letter,’ a speech bubble says. ‘Would you like some help?’ Beatrice scowls. No, she thinks, I don’t need anyone’s help. Not any more. This, I’m doing for me. She takes a deep breath, then types: ‘You won’t remember me but we met in Room 423 of the Hotel Rotunda in Mayfair.’

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