Читать книгу: «An Almost Perfect Moon»

CHAPTER ONE Sunday and raining

Outside, the rain continued, putting paid to the planned walk on Wandsworth Common. Lucie had delivered the kind of high-class lunch her husband and close friends had come to expect. All the same, at seven-and-a-half months pregnant, she had warned all of them this was going to be the last she would be cooking at her and Ben’s house for quite some time. In the short-term future, if anyone was expecting to be fed on a Sunday, Ben would have to be the cook. Her husband had shrugged and the others had agreed that in that case, they should definitely make the most of the spread before them.

Now, having eaten and drunk too much, the small party slumped in front of the television, the fire gently flickering in its even, gas-infused way. They were watching Rebecca.

‘Oh my God, it’s burning,’ Tiffany exclaimed as Maxim de Winter hurtled down the drive towards Manderley. Flin was half reading the paper, and Harry seemed mildly distracted, but the other three were content to watch the final events of the film unfolding on the screen.

Ben was the first to pass judgement, as the final image – a single ‘R’ surrounded by flames – melted from the screen.

‘I’m sorry, darling, but that was bollocks.’ He stretched his arms above him and yawned.

‘It’s a great film,’ sighed Lucie. ‘Don’t be such a bloody heathen. Didn’t have enough guns for you, I suppose.’ She slapped him lightly on his shoulder and dug one of her legs into him. Since cooking the lunch, she’d refused to lift another finger; it was her prerogative to sit down and gently soothe her swollen, semi-spherical belly.

‘Well, I thought it was great. Really romantic,’ put in Tiffany.

‘Although I have to admit,’ added Lucie, ‘their’s was a totally unconvincing relationship. Never would have worked. There’s too much stacked against them. He’s dominating and dismissive and she’s wet. Not to mention the manslaughter bit. Because that’s what it was, even if she was dying and he was driven to it. It’s so sordid.’

Ben leant over and kissed her very delicately on the cheek. ‘Then we’re obviously doomed, darling: you’re dominating and I’m meek.’

‘Oh, be quiet,’ retorted Lucie, prodding him in the ribs.

‘See? I rest my case,’ he grinned.

But Tiffany, who hadn’t yet married Flin, picked up on something else. ‘So what do you think makes a good marriage then? You guys always seem so great together. What’s the secret?’

‘An adoring husband,’ said Ben.

Ignoring him, and deciding to take the question seriously, Lucie replied, ‘I don’t know really – I suppose you’ve got to be best of pals. Shared interests. You’ve got to like each other’s friends. That’s important.’ She looked thoughtfully in the direction of the bookcase. ‘Fancy each other, of course.’

‘No problem there,’ said Ben, ‘I’ve always fancied the pants off Luce.’

Finally giving her husband a hint of a smirk, Lucie added, ‘You’ve just got to know you’re right together. Deep down. But you guys might as well be married. You live together just like we do. What’s the secret for you? Much the same I expect.’

‘I don’t know, honey, what’s the secret?’ asked Tiffany, craning round to look at Flin.

‘What you have to realize,’ said Flin, half-heartedly covering Tiffany’s ears, ‘is that as well as being a gorgeous Aussie babe, Tiff is one of the most laid-back, easy-going people I know.’

‘And I like pubs a lot,’ added Tiffany, ‘which is important to you, isn’t it, honey?’

‘And you like pubs.’

‘And beer,’ said Lucie, ‘which considering you’re so tiny, I’ve always found extraordinary.’

Tiffany shrugged, then laughed. Flin looked at her, blonde hair dishevelled, and outsized woollen jumper stretched over knees tucked under her chin. He probably loved her more now than ever. He was a lucky man.

Ben decided to provoke Lucie. ‘Still,’ he began, grinning conspiratorially at Flin, ‘I think you might be wrong about Laurence Olivier and Joan Fontaine. I reckon they’d have worked out. After all she’s marrying pots of cash and he’s got a young wife to have great sex with. Anyway, I want to know what the film expert thinks,’ said Ben. ‘Come on, Flin.’

‘Oh, I’m with you all the way,’ agreed Flin. ‘Great sex and loads of money can overcome all sorts of other problems, I’m sure.’

‘I know what you’re doing, you two, and it isn’t going to work.’ Lucie folded her arms adamantly.

Tiffany laughed, ‘If only you were rich, Flin.’

‘If only I were,’ said Flin, stretching, ‘but I’m not sure I really see the point of getting married. And if Tiff ever does insist on it, I think we should go and do it on a beach in Barbados or something. I’ve seen so many people get hitched and everyone, without exception, seems to become totally over-stressed and argumentative over it. Seems a lot more hassle than it’s worth.’

‘That’s why it’s good for any long-lasting relationship,’ said Lucie. ‘It’s a test. If you still want to be married after an engagement full of wedding organization and arguments with future in-laws, you know you’re definitely made for each other.’

‘Fair comment,’ admitted Flin.

‘I quite like the sound of Barbados,’ said Tiffany, turning round to see Flin’s reaction.

‘OK, let’s go next week,’ he grinned. ‘Can everyone here make it?’

‘Great. I’m up for it,’ said Ben, holding up his hand, classroom-style. But Luice hadn’t finished on the important matter of the de Winters’ future.

‘I still think Laurence and Joan wouldn’t work. It would develop into a miserable loveless marriage. Really, they’re two completely different people – different ages, different classes, which was important then, and for most of the film he treats her more like a daughter. He was certainly old enough to be her dad. And he never once called her by her name. By the end of the film you still don’t know what her bloody name is! I mean, what kind of a marriage is that?’

‘What about “opposites attract”?’ suggested Ben. ‘And “darling”, he did call her “darling”.’

‘Yes, but in a patronizing way. He was always patronizing her. I’d have slugged him one, personally, but she was so bloody feeble and infatuated she put up with it.’

There was slight pause after Lucie finished her speech, and she interpreted this as confirmation of an argument won.

‘Well, if that’s how you feel,’ said Ben, yawning again, ‘at least there’s no chance of anyone accusing you of being wet, hey baby?’

‘Lucie, were you always this strident, or is it a side-effect of being pregnant?’ asked Flin, not looking up from his paper.

Lucie threw a cushion at him, grinned sheepishly, and then said, ‘Well, what do you think, Harry? I’m right, aren’t I?’

Harry, miles away, had only been half listening. Sitting on the wingbacked armchair, (his favourite spot whenever he came over), a leg dangling over one of the arms, he was staring up at the bookcases, filled with Lucie’s creased-arched paperbacks.

‘I’m afraid I’m with Luce on this one,’ he said at length, ‘they didn’t seem to have a lot in common.’

‘Thank you, Harry,’ said Lucie triumphantly.

‘Yes, but come on, Harry, look at Julia. She’s absolutely gorgeous. You can’t say that doesn’t help.’

‘Sure it does, but is it enough?’

‘Looking at those breasts and amazing legs of hers, I’d have thought so, yes.’

‘Ben!’ Lucie glared at him.

‘Darling, that’s nothing against you: I think you’re perfect, but from Harry’s point of view, Julia is a very attractive proposition.’

‘And she’s pretty well-off, isn’t she, Harry?’ added Flin.

Harry nodded wistfully.

‘So what’s the problem?’ asked Ben.

‘There isn’t one, I suppose. I don’t know. It’s just … well, I mean, you lot – you’re all so happy with each other. Ben and Lucie, you’re married; Flin and Tiffany, you might as well be. But I can’t see myself ever marrying Julia somehow.’

‘Why not?’ asked Ben. ‘You get on really well. She makes you laugh – you said so; she’s stunning; for some reason she seems to adore you. Sounds to me like you’ve got it made. Anyway, I thought it was all going well and that you were really keen. Has something happened?’

‘No, no, nothing. Nothing at all. Forget it.’

‘Harry, I do think you’re jumping the gun a bit,’ put in Lucie. ‘I mean, you’ve only been going out a couple of months. Stop comparing yourself with other people and see how it goes.’

‘Yeah, you’re right.’ He force-smiled at them: Ben and Lucie, looking so comfortable on the sofa, despite Lucie’s pregnant awkwardness; and Flin and Tiffany, Flin’s hand loosely draped over Tiffany’s shoulder while he read the paper, she sipping more red wine, the very picture of contented togetherness. It had been a mistake to mention his doubts about Julia. It was obvious what they would all say.

Ben, eyeing his friend, decided on this occasion to let it go. He’d call him up, arrange to go for a drink after football on Tuesday, and get to the bottom of it then.

Flin meanwhile had gone back to his paper and was leafing through the previous day’s property section, when something caught his eye.

‘Tiff, look at this,’ he said, slapping the paper down in front of her.

‘What?’ asked Ben.

‘A house,’ Flin told him. ‘A bloody big house – four bedrooms, a couple of old outbuildings and seven acres of land. Jesus, I must be mad.’

‘And?’

‘And look at the price. It’s worth less than our flat.’

Tiffany passed the advert to Ben.

‘I mean, when I see that,’ Flin continued, ‘I’m just so glad I live in a tiny two-bedroom flat on a seedy street in the arse-end of Hammersmith. Jesus. Makes me feel really quite ill. What the hell are we all doing here, for God’s sake?’

‘Yeah, but, Flin, who the hell wants to live in Northumberland?’ said Ben, passing the paper round to Lucie and then Harry. ‘I mean, it’s so bleak. And nothing to do unless you’ve a bit of a thing for sheep.’

‘I wouldn’t mind,’ said Tiffany. ‘I think it looks nice.’

‘You like sheep, do you?’ asked Harry, handing the folded paper back to Flin. ‘It’s cheap for a reason.’

Flin looked at it again. It seemed to be nestled in a small valley, although behind it, to emphasize the land that came with it, could be seen the empty Northumbrian uplands. Beautiful, but Ben was right – not exactly practical.

‘You’re right,’ he said at last, ‘but to think I could own that when I live in a glorified shoe-box still makes me feel a bit depressed. I mean, just look at all that space. The fresh air, no traffic jams, no graffiti, and yes, just the melodic sound of contented sheep bleating from the upper pastures. Maybe that’s the way forward. Get out of the madness of London and wind down for a while. Lead the simple life. De-stress. It’d be great, wouldn’t it? I’d get out of bed and be greeted by a vista of uninterrupted fields, instead of a mirror image of my own flat on the other side of the road. No Underground to scrabble through. No feeling grimy and soiled as soon as I got to work. Just clean, wholesome living.’

‘Wholesome but piss-boring,’ added Ben.

Flin looked at the picture once more. ‘Yeah, maybe,’ he said. ‘It was just a thought.’

As Harry left Ben and Lucie’s that afternoon, he was pleasantly surprised to note how the March days were slowly lengthening. He looked up to see a suggestion of clear blue lingering over the Common. The ground was wet underfoot, but the air felt dry and bracing after an afternoon spent surfeiting on food, drink and warmth. Feeling bloated, Harry decided to walk home. Anyway, he could never be bothered to wait for buses. Much better to be on the go.

The walk back to Brixton took half an hour. Across the quiet, wide-open stretch of Clapham Common, then an amble down the genteel calmness of Abbeville Road. The boundary between Clapham and Brixton was unmistakable. As he turned onto Acre Lane, he was greeted with immediate bustle and noise. Not far away, sirens cut across the evening air; then a shiny four-by-four with blacked-out windows thudded past him, vibrating music pulsing tremors along the road.

As Harry arrived outside his flat, he made his normal inspection of his beloved old Citröen, but, as usual, it was fine, not a blemish to be seen. His fellow Brixtonians seemed to respect rather than resent it. He sighed, feeling uncharacteristically low. On the cusp of thirty and a life that felt suddenly empty.

He stomped up the stairs. In his kitchen, a faint odour of cleansing fluid still lingered around the sink and surfaces. His answerphone, neatly attached to the wall by the door, was flashing the message light. Underneath, lying equally neatly on top of each other, were two bills, two more final warnings. Harry cursed himself. He’d intended to pay those first thing on Saturday morning but had forgotten. That meant he’d have to phone the following morning and explain that he would pay them that day, as he was bound to have already exceeded his seven days’ grace. This was the trouble with being a self-employed artist: irregular pay which it encouraged irregular payment of bills. Still, nothing he could do about on a Sunday night. He pressed the answer machine.

‘Oh, Harry, it’s your father here. Need to come down to town this week and was hoping to bunk up at your place. How about tomorrow? Bye.’ His father often did that, always ‘bunking up’ or ‘bunking down’ armed with his old leather overnight bag and battered briefcase. Harry smiled; he loved the fact his father felt he could. The second was from Julia, her smooth Galaxy bar tones filtering their way through the distortions of the machine.

‘Hi, Harry. It’s Julia. Just wondering when I’m going to see you next. I loved last night – it was wonderful. Call me.’

He would, but later. In his bathroom he undressed and ran a bath. Looking at himself in the mirror, he realized how tired he looked. It wasn’t surprising. There were just a few grey hairs amongst the otherwise light, soft mop that shaggily covered his head, and the beginning of a wrinkle at one side of his mouth; curiously the other remained unblemished. Nearly thirty and yet his life still felt utterly directionless. His other friends seemed to be leaving him behind. Nearly all of them were now married or living with their partners. Ben and Lucie were about to have a child. His parents had been twenty-nine when he’d been born, but there still seemed an enormous gulf between his present situation and settling down. He wished he could; he felt ready to in his heart, but he just didn’t seem able to find the right person to do it with.

What was the matter with him? Was he so obsessed with finding his one true love that, like Mrs Danvers, he would slowly go mad, eventually setting fire to his flat and himself? He plodded out of the bathroom, his towel wrapped around him, put on some cheering music, and sighed once more, this time a little more heavily. At least he had his flat. That was something. Just his and no one else’s. He could be as selfish as he wanted without it affecting anyone. Slumping down on the sofa, he looked about him. His taste, his choice; the television positioned in the corner, or the painting by his mother next to the door, simply because he wanted them there. There was no one to compromise with over what video to watch or when to have a bath. No one to stop him farting if he felt like farting. He could eat what he wanted to eat, and not be chided for putting too much butter on his toast like Lucie did with Ben. And no matter how envious he might feel of his friend’s advanced situation in life, once the baby was born, Ben’s life would not be the same. Being an artist also meant he was his own man, with no one telling him what to do. Unlike Julia, or his other friends, he wasn’t a slave to some higher being. Really, he had a lot to be thankful for.

The rain had finally given way to a half-clear sky as the blanket of cloud slowly disappeared. But, leaving Ben and Lucie’s, Flin barely noticed the upturn in the weather; his mind was preoccupied with a different matter entirely.

‘You know what, Tiff, perhaps we should leave London,’ he suggested to her in what he hoped was an offhand, easy-come, easy-go kind of manner.

‘OK,’ said Tiffany, as the bus pulled up on St John’s Road.

‘Well, perhaps we should,’ said Flin again, his excitement level rising.

‘When?’ said Tiffany casually as she stepped up to the driver. ‘Two to Hammersmith, please.’

She took the tickets and they squeezed themselves into one of the seats, which was far too small for Flin’s six-foot-something frame. His knees were wedged against the carpet-backed seat in front, and even Tiffany, who was tiny, looked cramped.

‘Are you serious?’ said Flin.

‘I don’t know. Are you?’

‘I’m not sure. Am I?’

Tiffany laughed. ‘You’re so funny. Flin, baby, I don’t know. I mean, what would we do?’

‘I’m sure we could find work. There must be PR companies worth working for outside London.’

‘Well, if we can both find something to do, then we could think about it. I wouldn’t mind moving out to the country. Don’t forget, hon, I’m a country girl. I’d never been anywhere a quarter of the size of London before I came here.’

‘It would be good though, wouldn’t it?’ continued Flin. ‘We could get a dog, have long walks, it’d be really quiet. We’d probably become regulars in some flagstoned local boozer. And just think – no more of this: taking hours to get anywhere. If we wanted to go to the beach, we could just go; we wouldn’t have to fight our way through one traffic jam after another, and walk past endless amounts of litter and graffiti.’

She looked up at him and grinned. ‘Darling, I’ll go anywhere with you. You know that.’

‘Be serious,’ said Flin, prodding her.

‘I am! Ouch! Get off me!’

‘No you’re not.’

‘Honestly, honey, I think it’s great that you see a house for sale in the newspaper and then decide we should throw in our jobs and move out.’ Flin saw she was trying to keep a straight face. ‘I mean, I think we should put our flat on the market straight away. Nothing like acting on a whim. Probably best just to be spontaneous. In fact, first thing tomorrow, let’s put an offer in on that house in Northumberland.’

‘That’s not funny,’ said Flin.

‘I think it’s hilarious.’

Both began giggling.

‘Tiff,’ he said, gasping, ‘share my vision.’

At which she started laughing again so hard, she could no longer speak. Eventually, she recovered. ‘Look, stop making me laugh. Everyone’s staring at us.’

‘I still think we should think about it though,’ said Flin.

Tiffany rested her head against his shoulder. ‘But seriously, Flin, you’re always having these plans. Don’t you remember last year you were dead set on us moving to France?’

‘It was a great idea at the time.’

‘Except that neither of us speaks French and we wouldn’t be able to get any work. And then you wanted to buy a houseboat.’

‘But that would have been great too.’

‘Yes, but you couldn’t talk about anything else for two weeks, then you realized it was actually going to cost a fortune and that was the last I heard of it. Then there was the time when we were going to take out loans and learn to fly. And then that was shelved and the money was going to fund us for a year of travelling the world. I love your enthusiasm for things, darling, but I can’t take this latest “vision” seriously because it’ll probably be dead in the water by next Thursday.’

‘But it’s only ever been lack of money that’s prevented us doing this stuff. If we can get jobs and so on, it might really be possible. And you have to admit, it would be good to have a little bit of land, wouldn’t it?’

Tiffany said nothing.

Flin continued. ‘That house we saw had a couple of fields, didn’t it? Just think, we could have a few sheep, get some geese and chickens and grow things. We could eat lots of really fresh, wholesome food. It’d be brilliant, wouldn’t it?’ Flin kissed the top of her head.

‘Brilliant,’ she said, and closed her eyes.

But Tiffany was probably right. Did he mean it? He simply wasn’t sure. In theory, the idea of moving out and pursuing the pastoral dream definitely fired him. But in practice … well, it was a big, big step.

‘You know what?’ Flin said to Tiffany a while later. The telly was on and she was snuggled up against him on the sofa.

‘What?’ said Tiffany, absent-mindedly tickling his arm.

‘I think I’ve just eradicated all the arguments I used to use for staying in London.’

‘Still on this one then. And what are those?’

‘Well,’ said Flin, counting them off on his fingers, ‘firstly I always used to say all my friends were here. But they’re not really. Not any more. Jessica’s in New York, Geordie’s in Wiltshire, Josh is in Sydney. That’s three really good mates who’ve left me behind. Secondly, I know film PR is fun and glamorous, but I have always said it was a young person’s job, and not for life.’ He paused, ‘Perhaps I should leave now. Sort of quit while I’m ahead.’

‘You do love your job, darling, you know you do.’

‘Well, yes and no, actually. I mean, having to deal with all those egos gets a bit wearing. And after all, it’s just promoting a product really. I’m sure there’re other equally interesting products to promote outside London.’

Tiffany put her arms around him and gave him a quick squeeze.

‘And,’ he continued, ‘I’m thirty now. If I’m ever going to take a risk in life, now’s the time to do it. No more of this complacency. It’s time we showed a bit of carpe diem, or whatever.’ He knew he was a past master when it came to convincing himself into doing something, but felt on this occasion his arguments were both valid and reasonable.

‘You’d be able to get work in TV research outside of town, wouldn’t you?’ he continued.

‘Well, maybe. There’s the BBC in Bristol, and there are other production companies in all the major cities. I suppose, in theory, it might be possible.’

‘Exactly, it would be a doddle. And I’m sure with my experience I could get another job in PR without too much problem.’

‘Well, honey, there’s only one way to find out.’

‘Exactly.’ He knew he was really preaching to himself, not her. Excitement lit up his face. ‘Come on, Tiff, let’s just do it. Bloody well take the plunge and live a little. Really, what have we got to lose? We’re still young, no kids – who cares if it all goes pear-shaped?’

‘Whatever, honey.’

‘I know what you’re thinking, but it would be great – a new life.’ He kissed her.

Tiffany went back to watching the television.

‘OK,’ said Flin, wanting to seem as though he were compromising, ‘but look at this place.’ He waved a hand around their little sitting room. ‘It’s great and everything, and all ours, I know, but it is a shoe-box. In the country we could have something probably four times the size.’ He looked about him. With their two sofas, laundry-box coffee table and bookshelves, the room did look particularly narrow. ‘Just think of all that space. It’d be so great. A proper, grown-up house.’

‘Where’s that?’ asked Tiffany, pointing to the TV. Jerome Flynn was gallivanting around the countryside in a four-wheel drive saving an otter.

‘Northumberland,’ said Flin.

‘Wasn’t that house you were looking at earlier in Northumberland?’

It was true, it was. Perhaps someone was trying to tell him something. He hadn’t thought about that part of the world for ages, then suddenly two pointers in one afternoon. But the North-East did hold some unique possibilities. He knew Newcastle from his unversity days nearby at Durham, and he liked it too, from what he remembered. A big urban centre – lots of shops, cinemas and nice places to eat, so they wouldn’t feel too cut off. And surely they had PR companies up there? There was certainly television. Then there was Northumbria itself: the long beaches with the castles of Bamburgh and Dunstanburgh, romantic cliff-top outposts that he remembered captivated him so much when he’d holidayed there as a child. There was Hadrian’s Wall and dry-stone walls and sheep and lots and lots of space. How could he possibly get stuck in a traffic jam up there? Most importantly, it was cheap. Or at least, cheap compared to Wiltshire. He’d love to go back there, to be near his family and his oldest friend, Geordie. It would be wonderful to live the rest of his days in the countryside where he’d grown up and been so happy. But what could he do there? Salisbury was hardly a heaving urban epicentre. It was also pricey – he always looked at the property prices in the Salisbury Journal and it never failed to dishearten him. No, if he wanted space, real space, a house with a bit of land, heading up north was the better option.

They went to bed quite early that night. Flin was already propped up rereading The Darling Buds of May when Tiffany joined him from the bathroom. Seeing her petite frame never ceased to thrill him. Nimbly tucking herself into bed, she put her arm over him and he felt her breasts, face and hair nestling on his chest, and one of her legs wrapping itself around his.

‘Thank you,’ he said to her.

‘For what?’

But he didn’t answer, just kissed her instead. He and Tiffany just felt so right. He knew what Lucie had meant when she’d said that about her and Ben. He and Tiff’d been together four years now. He remembered when he realized she fancied him, and how surprised and delighted he’d been. She had been working for him, temping on her first job since arriving in London. On her last day, he’d overheard her talking about him to one of the other girls in the office. That night, after work, they’d gone to the pub, drunk too much and ended up in bed together. Since then, they’d hardly spent a day apart. No one understood him better, or made him laugh more. He knew he had a tendency to complicate his life; she was the most patient and uncomplicated person he knew. He was certain she would be prepared to move to the country; maybe it was her Australian blood, but she loved the outdoors. When they’d first started going out, it was she as much as he who’d suggested they go off camping at weekends and backpacking for their summer holidays.

Flin had always thought he’d move to the country some day, but it had been something one did when one was older, much older, so that he’d carried on living and working in London without really pausing to consider whether the rural idyll was actually a possibility. But now that time had arrived, sudden and unexpected – prompted by the mere reading of a newspaper! – and, really, there was nothing to stop them. He’d been subconsciously using his fears and the potential risks of the Big Move as a reason for staying put; but by playing safe he would become increasingly ensnared by the London tentacles: he’d never be able to leave his job because, before he knew it, he’d be past his sell-by date for anything else. No one else would want him. A sobering thought. Clearly, he had to take the plunge now, break free from the rope that was pulling him ever more firmly towards a lifetime in the city. Be bold, make the move while they were still young, and the pastoral dream could be theirs. He felt excited – and nervous – but determined to see it through. At least, he hoped he’d still feed the same way in a week’s time.

Apart from trips to the loo, Lucie remained true to her word, and didn’t lift another finger that day. Harry and Ben had done most of the clearing up earlier, but once everyone had left, Ben finished the job and then brought his wife more tea.

‘How are you feeling, my love?’ he asked her, running his hands through her short, thick hair.

‘Fine. I think. Tired. You can carry on doing that though.’

‘All right, but my arm’s beginning to ache.’

‘A bit longer. I’m definitely highly emotional and need lots of care and attention.’

Ben sat down again on the sofa, resuming his earlier position with Lucie’s legs straddled across him. He was very happy with their house. Three bedrooms, reasonable-sized kitchen at the back and a bit of a garden, half grass, half paved. Lucie, who had an eye for style, had decorated it beautifully – everyone said so, including Harry, whose opinion as an artist, they valued. They’d filled it with some old pieces of furniture stolen from her mother, but newer stuff too – such as the large Indian table and dresser, and the kind of sofa that encouraged deep-seated comfort. There was an abundance of cushions. It was the home of a young couple whose tastes had merged and who were doing well in the world.

He glanced at Lucie. He felt so proud of her. She was such a marvel, so wonderfully pretty and funny. And brave to be bearing the pregnancy with such calmness. He worried for her though. She always said she wasn’t pushing herself too hard, but he never quite believed her. It was all very well Harry accusing him of being a control freak, but he just wanted to make sure nothing went wrong. He wanted his baby, his family and the family to come, to be perfect. Sometimes he worried something terrible would happen and Lucie might be torn from him. It didn’t bear thinking about, he loved her so much. And the thought of having to put up with what his father had had to: four boys to rear almost entirely on his own – well, it would be awful, terrible unbearable. His father, just past retirement age but still forced to work, had looked so old last time Ben had paid him a visit. He’d always looked older than he was, the strain of looking after his sons and working long hours having taken its toll at an early stage, but even so … It wasn’t surprising his father had never remarried: he’d never had the time to meet anyone else.

Lucie too had lost a parent, although her father had been killed when she was just two. It had been a bond between them from the outset. But her father died flying a helicopter and Lucie was able to grow up proud of the handsome, heroic figure in the photo frame. Ben kept no picture of his mother. After she’d left them, she was simply never mentioned again. Sometimes it was as though she’d never existed at all.

Ben had never understood her desertion. What had they done to deserve such an unnatural act? Aunts and family friends were no substitute. Ben was brought up hearing his father yell at his older brothers Stephen, Matthew and Andrew as they found themselves in one piece of trouble after another. Gradually, they wore him down: by the time Andrew had dropped out of school, his father had long since given up trying to control them.

Ben was different. From an early age he’d recognized that the way to escape this oppressive family life was to keep his nose to the ground and work hard. His brothers helped with this. All of them were big; nobody messed with the Armstrong boys, so their little brother evaded the normal bullying meted out to swots. It was the one thing for which he would always owe them. By the time they’d all left school he was big enough to look after himself. At fifteen he was six feet tall and shaving every day, and no one touched him. He was left to study as hard as he liked, and it soon paid off. The first of his brothers to get any O-levels, he stunned the rest of the family by managing ten straight As. From then on university was just a formality. None the less, the day he’d won a place at Cambridge to read economics had been the best of his life. His ticket to freedom.

‘I wonder if the little thing will have any hair to start off with,’ said Lucie, suddenly opening her eyes.

‘I don’t know. At least we know what colour it’ll be.’

‘Worried I’ve been with the postman?’

Ben laughed. ‘If it’s not very dark indeed, you’ll be in big trouble.’ He rubbed her tummy gently. This was what he’d been looking forward to ever since they’d married: a son or daughter, so he’d have his own proper family. Just six weeks to go. He couldn’t wait. This was what he worked so hard for. He wasn’t going to make the same mistakes his father had. He would always be able to provide for his family. Lucie would be effectively retiring in a few weeks’ time – he now earned enough for her to extend her maternity leave indefinitely if she so wished, and still put money aside for the future. Their child would always have a parent at home. Ben glanced around the room. Life was pretty good. Upstairs he’d carefully decorated the nursery – yellow, because he felt it was good for boys and girls, and he’d also lined the room with a frieze and a mobile of wooden parrots. It was the only yellow Lucie had allowed in the house – elsewhere, she’d firmly banned it as being ‘too early nineties’.

‘But I like yellow,’ Ben told her, ‘it’s cheerful.’

‘But, darling, everyone has yellow. It’s so faux.’ Ben bowed to her better judgement. After all, she knew much more about style and current trends than he did – as she should, the amount of magazines she subscribed to.

Later, as they lay in bed, Ben said to her, ‘So what d’you think is Harry’s problem with Julia?’

Lucie put down her magazine, paused and then turned to him. ‘Harry’s a romantic, darling. But I also think he’s terrified of committing to anyone other than his mythical perfect person. And I’m not sure she exists.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Perhaps he’s right, and Julia isn’t the one for him, but all I’m hearing is how wonderful she is. I don’t really understand his problem. And anyway, I thought all men liked big tits.’

‘Not at all. We don’t all adhere to men’s magazine ideology. And anyway, I love you and yours aren’t exactly huge, are they?’

‘Ben, I feel so flattered.’ She laughed. ‘But I do think Harry should give Julia a bit of a chance. He wants too much – no couple are going to be in perfect unison all the time, but he just won’t accept that.’

‘It’s his mum and dad,’ Ben told her. ‘Perhaps we’re at an advantage – we’ve got no standards to judge marriage by, but he’s got his brilliant parents, still happy together after thirty-five years. Harry says they even still sleep together, and his dad’s now seventy.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t worry too much about Harry. We’re going to have more than enough to think about in a few weeks – I want you to concentrate your energies on us.’ She kissed him, and turned off the light.