Authors: Jane Marciano
'Not
this
one,'
she
glanced
slightly
more
anxiously
at
her
watch.
'You
have
to
be
there?'
'Oh
God
yes.
Three
line
whip.'
'What?'
'Political
expression
in
England.
Must
attend.
He's
just
been
asked
to
chair
some
government
advisory
board
-
medical
stuff
-
not
sure
what.
He
wants
us
all
there.'
'Oh,'
was
all
Claude
said.
'Will
you
tell
them?
Your
father?'
Alice
headed
for
her
bedroom
still
clutching
the
phone.
'Shouldn't
I
wait
until-'
'No,'
he
cut
in.
'No.
He
doesn't
like
me
but
-
no
Alice,
please.
You
know
that's
true,
but
better
to
be
honest.
We
have
nothing
to
hide,
do
we?'
'Not
a
thing
I
can
think
of.
You
know,'
she
said
pulling
open
her
wardrobe.
'I
think
he'll
be
pleased,
in
his
own
way.
Really
I
do.
I
have
to
go.
Love
you.’
Less
than
half
an
hour
later
having
locked
up,
set
the
alarm
and
left
a
scribbled
note
for
Elsa,
who
rented
the
flat
above
from
her,
to
remember
to
put
out
the
bins
on
Sunday
evening,
Alice
was
edging
her
battered
jeep
out
of
the
car-congested
narrow
road,
one
of
a
warren
running
either
side
of
the
scruffier
end
of
Fulham
Road,
that
had
been
her
home
for
the
last
two
years.
It
was
extraordinary,
she
decided
as
she
manoeuvred
her
way
almost
without
being
conscious
of
what
she
was
doing,
through
the
Saturday
afternoon
traffic
that
was
clogging
up
all
the
bridges
crossing
to
the
south
side
of
the
river,
how
different
she
had
become
since
Claude.
She
who
was
-
or
had
been
(she
had
to
acknowledge
the
past
tense)
-
so
matter
of
fact,
so
-
oh
how
she
hated
to
say
it
but
it
was
true
-
famously
sensible,
was
no
longer
recognisable
as
the
person
who
had
once
tended
to
roll
her
eyes
and
shake
a
disbelieving
head
when
she
heard
about
the
sort
of
person
she
herself
had
become.
Besotted.
Irredeemably
besotted.
She
was
restless,
unfocussed.
She
knew
it
and
hated
it.
It
was
so
not
what
she
was
about.
But
what
could
she
do?
'If
this’,
she
told
herself
fearfully
as
she
drove,
'is
love,
then
I'm
not
sure
I'm
cut
out
for
it.'
By
the
time
she
joined
the
motorway,
any
hope
of
being
in
Sussex
in
less
than
two
hours
had
been
abandoned.
Traffic,
queues
and
queues
of
it.
And
endless
road
works,
the
kind
that
blisteringly
hot
afternoons
such
as
this
-
and
even
hotter
tempers
-
seemed
to
specialise
in.
She
grappled
in
her
bag
for
her
phone.
The
house
phone
went
to
the
machine.
Of
course,
everyone
would
be
outside.
She
pressed
her
mother's
mobile
number.
'Ma?'
she
shouted
into
her
mother's
voicemail
above
the
noise
of
the
lines
of
lorries
belching
and
squealing
either
side
of
her.
'Traffic's
vile
but
on
my
way’.
She
paused,
before
adding
almost
pleadingly:
'Tell
Dad
for
me,
will
you?
Really
sorry,
just
got
held
up.'
It
wasn't
her
mother
she
worried
about.
Gentle
and
clever,
Molly
Melrose
never
minded
what
any
of
her
children
did.
But
to
anyone
who
knew
the
whole
family,
Alice,
the
youngest
of
Harry
Melrose's
three
children,
seemed
to
possess
the
ability,
on
a
fairly
majestic
scale,
to
trigger
her
father’s
temper
on
the
turn
of
a
sixpence.
And
here
she
was,
hopelessly
late,
and
about
to
break
it
to
him
about
Claude.
Either
option
perfectly
capable
of
creating
the
kind
of
scene
she
dreaded.
Claude.
A
fait
accompli.
Alice
almost
laughed.
She
felt
insane.
She
imagined
him
in
his
car,
heading
away
from
his
home
in
the
centre
of
Paris
to
drive
half
an
hour
to
Neuilly-sur-Seine,
to
tell
his
wife
that
all
their
lives
were
now
going
to
be
different.
By
the
time
Alice
finally
turned
into
the
narrow
country
lane
in
Sussex
leading
to
the
Georgian
rectory
where
she
had
grown
up,
its
pale
primrose
walls
bathed
in
sunlight,
and
having
argued
herself
into
believing
that
her
father
would
be
pleased
for
her,
she
had
begun
to
feel
quite
buoyant
about
the
conversation
that
lay
ahead.