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she had to work an extra-­long shift. Then, perhaps hearing the disappointment in his voice, she said, ‘Let’s do something tomorrow.’
    He perked up slightly, said he’d try to think of something special…
    ‘No,’ she said, ‘nothing special. Let’s just go to the cinema or something.’
    He asked her what she wanted to see.
    ‘I don’t know. What is there?’
    He said he’d have a look.
    And then, just when that seemed settled, he said, ‘Are you sure you don’t want to do something tonight?’
    And she sighed and said, ‘I’m tired. Let’s do something tomorrow.’
    He slings the tennis ball in the twilight under the trees, slings it with all his strength, twisting his torso and whipping into the throw, trying to find the trajectory that will send Hugo furthest over the still-­wintery lawns. His excitable voice as he pursues it punctures the low moan of the traffic endlessly orbiting the square. Something is not okay. He is thinking again of that strange moment on Monday afternoon at the poolside. Something happened in Marrakech, something he does not know about. When they leave the square it is evening and the signs on the hotel fronts are illuminated.

3
    O n Sunday there is this lunch at Isabel and Steve’s. ‘No Katherine?’ is the first thing Isabel says, opening the door to see her brother standing there on his own. He wishes she hadn’t mentioned her. Everything is pretty fucking far from okay.
    He spent Saturday morning under the skylight in the living room, seeing what films were on, interrogating the Internet in his seldom-­used spectacles. Surveying the listings he felt lost, ill-­equipped to find something that she would like. He does not yet have any sort of instinct for her taste. It is not easily predictable. Miriam, for instance, only touched unimpeachably art-­house films, made him sit through the plotless offerings of French and Russian men, whose names still affect him the way memories of lessons at school do—­a trapped mind-­numbing feeling, a surly sense of personal insufficiency, and a quiet thankfulness that he is not in the experience now. Though Katherine sometimes shows an interest in such films too—­he has noticed some DVD s lying around her flat with titles like Andrei Rublev and Tokyo Story —­she is more omnivorous, more promiscuous in what she enjoys. This does not make working out what she will enjoy any easier. Quite the opposite.
    He had just finished making an eclectic shortlist when she phoned. Almost as soon as he started talking about what films were on and where, she interrupted him. ‘James…’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Um.’ She seemed stuck. She said, ‘I don’t…’ then stopped again.
    ‘What?’
    ‘You’re not going to like this,’ she said.
    ‘What?’
    ‘I don’t want to see you today.’ Silence. ‘I just… I need to spend some time on my own. Is that alright?’
    ‘If that’s what you want,’ he heard himself say.
    ‘Phew,’ she said. She sounded less nervous. ‘I was worried you’d be angry.’
    ‘I’m not angry. I’m…’
    ‘Disappointed?’
    ‘I wanted to see you.’
    ‘I know. I’m sorry.’
    ‘Why… ?’ he said. ‘Why don’t you want… ?’
    ‘I just need some time on my own,’ she said. ‘I need a weekend on my own. I need to get my head together. I haven’t stopped moving since we got back from Marrakech. I haven’t had any time to myself. I still haven’t finished unpacking… I’m sorry.’ Then she said, ‘Thanks for understanding. Thanks for making it easy for me.’
    Later he wondered whether he had made it too easy for her. What should he have done though? Made a scene? Tried to force her to see him? Even if he had wanted to do that, he just didn’t seem to feel enough at the moments when it might have been a possibility. He felt only a kind of numbness, and the infantile frustration of not getting what he wanted. And then the moment had passed and she was saying, ‘What are you going to do