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number ninety-­seven, he first walks up the steps at the front. The door there, however, is only for the two flats on the upper floors, and after peering puzzledly at the nameplates for a few moments, he looks around—­as if hoping to see someone who will be able to help him—­and then returns to the pavement. He looks up at the house. Then he notices the sign saying 97A, and pointing to the path at the side.
    Though the sharp trill of the doorbell is hardly audible over the hubbub of voices, James’s pulse quickens at the sound of it and he looks for someone to talk to. There, standing near the fireplace, is Miranda, an old friend of Isabel’s. Isabel once tried to set them up in fact. They went out once or twice. Without hesitation he walks over to her, interrupting the man she is talking to. Though he tries not to show it, this man—­Mark, a singleton from Quarles, Lingus—­is obviously put out by the way Miranda seems positively to welcome James’s interruption. He was just telling her about his planned skiing holiday to Norway with ‘some mates’, hoping to work around to suggesting that she might like to join them, when she turns away from him while he is in mid-­sentence—­‘Most people don’t know how fantastic the skiing is up…’—­and says, ‘James! Izzy promised me you’d be here.’ She puts her hand on James’s shoulder and kisses him. She has to stand on tiptoe. He leans forward to help her. ‘Did she?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘And how are you?’
    ‘I’m okay. You?’
    ‘Fine,’ James says. He is about to say something else when Mark stops looking impatiently off to the side and thrusts out a hand. ‘Mark!’
    ‘Hello.’
    ‘I was just telling Miranda about…’ He starts on Norway and skiing again, and James’s eyes move to the door, where, smiling nervously, the smartly dressed older man has just entered with Isabel. She is entirely focused on him. From the way she is treating him, he seems to be some sort of VIP. With his eyes on them, James is not listening to what Mark is saying—­‘And they all speak English, which is—’
    Following James’s stare, Miranda says, ‘Who’s that?’
    ‘Oh, he’s—’
    ‘They all speak English,’ Mark insists, ‘which is—’
    ‘He’s my uncle.’
    Isabel has ushered him to the drinks table, and is pouring him a glass of prosecco—­with his thumb and forefinger he indicates that he does not want much. Then, with a slightly worried look, she scans the room. James knows she is scanning it for him. She sees him, and says something to their uncle, and they start to move towards him.
    Miranda has just turned distractedly back to Mark, who says, ‘So, yes, they all speak English, which is—’
    ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ says Isabel. ‘I need to steal James for a minute. Is that okay? James, look who’s here,’ she says, with her hand on the old man’s shoulder.
    ‘Hello, Ted,’ James says, smiling pleasantly. ‘It’s been a long time. A very long time. How are you?’ As they step towards an empty patch of white maple, he hears Mark say, with a sort of wearinesss now, ‘So, yes, um, they all speak English, which is…’
    Ted is tall—­the same height as James, more or less—­and has the same high forehead, the same long face and squarish jaw. These are all things that flow to James from Ted’s side of the family, his mother’s side. Ted, though, is losing his white hair. The tightening skin is turning transparent on the prominences of his skull, while the skin of his neck has lost its hold entirely. Isabel has left the two of them to talk, and the first thing Ted says is, ‘The last time I saw you, you were doing very well.’
    James smiles. ‘Was I?’ This was one of the things he had feared having to talk about when he saw Ted in the street.
    ‘You had some sort of Internet firm.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘What happened to that?’
    When James tells him, Ted seems sincerely surprised. ‘Oh?’ he says. ‘Did it?