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interesting,’ I offer by way of defence. Isaac once proposed that the reason so many academics marry each other is because they never have to explain what they do, the conferences, the urgency of new material, the pressure to publish. To outsiders it can seem pointless, a luxury in a world that can little afford it.
    It is not without bitterness that I reflect that Isaac himself did not find it necessary to marry an academic. There was no difficulty in pledging himself to life with a corporate heiress. No brownstone in Brooklyn for them, no commute over the George Washington Bridge each morning from the suburbs.
    A phone beeps from the depths of one of Sean’s grocery bags. He pulls it out, slides a finger across the screen. ‘Sorry,’ he mouths at me, pointing to the phone. As I wonder if it’s a girl he’s speaking to, he rolls his eyes at me, whispers ‘Work.’
    I shouldn’t be relieved, but I am. My hand sneaks to my hair. Thankfully it’s still tied up. If Sean were to see it loose, see the mess it really is, he’d make his excuses and leave.
    I wish I had a sweater, anything to cover up this ridiculous T-shirt and outdated shorts. My fingers drum quietly on the table. The espresso has made me jittery, the molecules of caffeine marching up and down my veins. A woman squeezes past me to get to a vacant seat.
    ‘So, listen, I have to split.’ Sean rummages in his pockets for change.
    Disappointment prickles. I quell it. What was I expecting? He’s a child for God’s sake. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’
    He waves away my thanks. ‘You’re welcome.’ He grins at me. ‘It was good running into you. Unexpected.’
    Sean produces a pen from one of the many pockets in his jeans. ‘Give me your number. We could meet up some time, if you like.’
    I recite the digits of the home phone, embedded as they are in my memory, and remind myself to get a cell phone. If I am to be here for a while, the Bakelite in the hall won’t suffice. Sean transcribes them across one of his paper bags.
    ‘I run the same route every day,’ I venture.
    But Sean is already gone, hoisting his bags in his arms, sliding his thumb over the phone again. Someone shouts out his name as he leaves. High fives and fist bumps are exchanged outside in the street. I turn from the window. The coffee machine shrieks. The waitress drops a cup. It shatters and she swears. I can’t place her accent. Eastern European, maybe.
    I wish I felt easier around strangers. I wish I could just let them look at me and allow me to unsee my mother’s loathing. I should have written my own number on his paper bag without being asked. Maybe even added an exclamation mark or two, or a smiley face.
    My espresso is cooling, but I sip it anyway. It palpitates in my blood cells, a caffeine high that can be stronger than drugs at times.
    The café fills up, the late-morning crowd weaving in and out. A mother parks her pram in a space near me. The urge to touch the sleeping baby is so strong that I stand up and head for the door. I thank the waitress as I pass her. She is filling bowls with paper packets of sugar, cleaning tables, stacking cups. She looks tired.

    The sun spreads warm fingers on my back as I walk home. My keys jangle on a cord around my neck. The day lolls in front of me, clean, bleached, an empty sheet on which I have no words to write.

CHAPTER 5
    T he solicitor’s letter is a surprise. I’ve been expecting a phone call, a summons to a dry office in a Georgian house, where I’d sit on my hands watching cars on the street outside and the last of the Spanish students meandering along the paths. Not so. The embossed envelope sits imperiously on the hall mat, a relic of times past.
    My mother’s solicitor requests a meeting with Maude and me, at our convenience, to read her will and put her estate to rights. Her estate. I could almost laugh if I wasn’t so wary.
    I don’t expect much. Given my mother’s ardent lack of affection for me, I can’t