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had been loitering outside the pub earlier were now crystal dinner plates, and the pavements themselves were whitewashed with glitter. It was nights like this (in conjunction with the lager, admittedly) that always made Jack feel melancholy. So much beautiful stuff in the world and yet here he was, beginning his fifth decade (the thought almost made him stumble) and all he had to show for it was a maintenance agreement of terrifying proportions, a rented flat in Cefn Melin (courtesy of Julie’s mother, who played bridge with the man who owned the house), an increasingly part-time relationship with his son, a job he was beginning to feel was turning him into a comedy representation of himself – Prince Charming! Christ! What nonsense was that, for God’s sake? A question mark hanging over his entire career, and… What else? Oh yes. That was it. No milk.
    He got the key into the lock at the fifth attempt, and lurched foward into the gloom. The flat smelled faintly floury, like a long-closed-down bakery. Legacy, no doubt, of his hurried breakfast Pop Tart, which he hadn’t been able to eat on account of having nuked it, on account of not bothering to read the instructions, on account of thinking – misguidedly, as it turned out – that as Pop Tarts were marketed for dumb adolescents, that they would be foolproof in the same way McCain’s Microchips were. He shuffled into the kitchen and opened the fridge door. A new smell – chilled socks? – prickled his nostrils. He pulled the curry from the shelf and spent some moments contemplating the icons and tables that were printed on the back. Perhaps not. Perhaps he’d just have a cup of tea. Ah. But black. Perhaps he’d just have a biscuit, then. He bent to grope in the cupboard under the work top, but the action of rising with the plastic biscuit box made the silence around him crash and boom in his ears so unpleasantly that it was some moments before he dared focus on anything for fear he might be violently sick. His reflection scowled at him from the kitchen window.
    Shit, he hadn’t finished the piece for the Mail yet. Or phoned Allegra back. Perhaps he’d better just go to bed.

Chapter 4
    It was ironic, thought Hope, the domestic set up she had right now. Which was basically that she worked till the usual time – five, five thirty-ish, depending on workload – and her mum, who looked after Tom (fourteen) and Chloe (nine) after school three afternoons a week, was there to greet her when she got in, like a genetically modified version of herself. They’d had this arrangement in place since the autumn term. And though she was grateful, though it was workable and sensible, though it had been, OK, a Godsend, it felt all wrong. Because it was all wrong. Because her mother was doing what she used to do, and she was now doing what Iain used to do. Right down to the details. Her tutting about shoes and abandoned school bags in the hallway. Her mum bustling about in the kitchen making tea. She even pecked Hope on the cheek like Hope used to peck Iain on the cheek. Though, thought Hope ruefully, as the familiar rush of irritation washed over her, had she known then what she shouldhave known then, she would have ditched all the pecking and tea-making duties and clamped his scrotum in her garlic press instead.
    ‘He’s very handsome,’ her mother said now.
    ‘Who is?’
    ‘That DJ, of course! Jack Valentine.’
    ‘How would you know?’
    ‘Because I’ve seen him on ‘Wales this Week’.’
    ‘Have you? I thought he was on the radio.’
    ‘He is. Only he was on there the other week talking about the stadium or something. He’s got a lovely head of hair.’
    ‘That sounds rather alarming. So has Dave Lee Travis.’
    ‘Now there’s someone you never hear about any more. I think he’s dead, isn’t he?’
    ‘Of course he’s not dead, Mum.’
    ‘And not like that. I mean, it’s not bushy or anything. Just lush.’
    ‘Lush?’
    ‘Dense. You know. Nice and