‘Don’t be angry with me, Owen,’ Nodge whispers, as if Comfort, two feet away, could be kept from hearing him.

  ‘You have a conviction for possession of drugs,’ says Owen.

  ‘It was a long time ago. I wasn’t even old enough to vote. Which is why I didn’t mention it on the form. It’s meant to be deleted from my records.’

  ‘It was for twenty tabs of ecstasy.’

  ‘I didn’t know it was twenty tabs. A so-called friend slipped them in my pocket when we were stopped by the filth – sorry, police.’

  Owen’s forehead crumples into ragged patterns of confusion. Nodge looks at the beloved creases in Owen’s skin.

  ‘I don’t care about the ecstasy. I care that you never told me.’

  Nodge says nothing, but looks wretched. When Owen speaks again, his voice has shifted from puzzlement to anger.

  ‘Why? Why didn’t you tell me? Or, for that matter, why didn’t you tell her?’

  He waves the paper in the direction of Comfort, who is silently drumming her fingers on the desk and looking as if she wished she could be somewhere else.

  ‘I thought the bust would have been wiped or expired or that it would simply be lost,’ says Nodge weakly. ‘Christ, it was more than thirty years ago.’

  ‘But having a historic offence isn’t a bar to adoption. Is it? Not when the individual was still technically a child?’ says Owen, looking at Comfort hopefully.

  ‘It isn’t necessarily a bar, no. Especially an offence that took place so long ago. You were, what?’ she looked at the papers on her desk again. ‘Seventeen?’

  ‘Sixteen,’ said Nodge, his gaze returning to the floor in front of him.

  ‘So it probably wouldn’t have counted against you. Other than that, your record appears to be clean.’

  ‘What’s the “complication”, then?’ says Nodge.

  ‘The complication is that you never told us about it. The panel looks very seriously on being deceived. It puts the whole trustworthiness of any candidate into question.’

  Owen hands the charge sheet back to Comfort.

  ‘How complicated is it, then?’

  ‘Very complicated.’

  Comfort takes off her glasses. They are strong glasses, Nodge can see from the impenetrability of the lenses. With a lurch in his stomach, he realizes that she doesn’t want to see the expressions on Nodge and Owen’s faces when she speaks again.

  ‘This is a very sad matter, because from my perspective, I think you both would make excellent adoptive parents. Considerate, thoughtful, responsible, hardworking, loving, in a long, stable relationship. I was looking forward to giving you the good news. But then this came through yesterday. Now it’s out of my hands.’

  There is a pause during which Owen and Nodge appear to have been stricken into sitting statues. Finally, Comfort passes judgement and pronounces the sentence.

  ‘I’m afraid we are going to have to reject your application to adopt. There’s nothing I can do about it. I’m sorry, because there are so many children that could benefit from your care and support. But that’s the system, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I see,’ says Nodge, his voice like cracks in ice, spreading.

  ‘The rules say that you can try to apply again in eighteen months. If you declare the offence openly this time, you might have better luck.’

  The deed done, Comfort replaces her glasses on her nose and stands up, avoiding the gaze of either of the men.

  ‘So. Good luck to you both in the future, anyway.’

  She holds out her hand. Nodge stands, swaying like a drunken man, dully takes her hand and forlornly shakes it.

  ‘Thank you, Comfort,’ he says. ‘You have always been good to us and on our side, and I am very thankful for that. I don’t doubt if you had any choice in the matter, you would give us the benefit of the doubt. I’m sorry we’ve let you down.’

  ‘You haven’t let me down. I’m just sorry that… well… ’

  ‘She’s sorry that you’ve let us all down,’ says Owen in a small, hard voice. He too shakes Comfort’s hand, manages a thin smile, then turns and walks out the door without waiting for Nodge to follow him.

  * * *

  During the time it takes to walk back to the cab, neither Owen nor Nodge speak. The air sits on their shoulders like a heavy, damp blanket. Nodge climbs into the cab and focuses his gaze straight ahead at the road. Instead of getting in the back, Owen comes round to the driver’s side and puts his face close up to the glass. Nodge slides the window down.

  ‘I think I’d rather walk,’ says Owen.

  ‘Don’t be stupid. It’s going to rain in a minute.’

  ‘I’m not stupid. You’re stupid. In fact, you’re a fucking idiot.’

  Nodge cannot meet Owen’s eyes.

  ‘I know. I know I am. I’m sorry. Get in the back of the cab. We can talk about this later.’

  Owen takes a step back, away from the cab.

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why not.’

  ‘I’m too angry.’

  ‘But I… ’

  Before Nodge can finish his sentence Owen is scuttling away from him along the road, head down. He is zigzagging on the pavement. He looks like he could bump into a lamp post any moment. Nodge swings the cab round in a 360-degree circle, and pulls it up beside Owen, against the flow of traffic. A motorcyclist has to swerve and curses at Nodge before continuing his journey.

  ‘Owen. Get in. Please!’

  Specks of heavy drizzle have begun to explode on the cab windshield. Owen, rain beginning to slam into his face, stares momentarily at Nodge, then suddenly wheels to the right and disappears down an alley. Nodge considers parking and following him, but decides there is no point. He turns the cab around again and heads towards home.

  In his gut he is aware of a new feeling, mixing and curdling with the disappointment and shame. It is something he has not experienced for a long time – the sour gnawing of fear.

  March 2020: Brighton

  Veronica, Silas and Mason sit around the rustic kitchen table, picking at supper. Mason is tapping his knife on the distressed oak surface, an effect painstakingly achieved by Silas with wax, sandpaper and steel wool. Veronica, concentrating hard, manages to ignore the irritating noise.

  ‘You look a bit down, Veronica,’ says Silas.

  ‘It’s nothing really,’ says Veronica, inclining her head towards Mason and hoping that Silas will take the hint.

  ‘Is everything okay? At the therapy practice, I mean.’

  Veronica gives up trying to send Silas signals. He’s either being obtuse or simply ignoring her.

  ‘I suppose so. I mean – I had this one client, Vincent. I told you about him.’

  ‘Did you? I can’t remember. Mason, aren’t you going to eat that?’

  Mason pushes some lentils around his plate, but does not raise his fork to his mouth. He taps on the table more vigorously.

  ‘I’ve told you a couple of times. He walked out on me, said I was wasting his time. He’s made a complaint to BACP. It’s been eating away at me somehow. Perhaps at some level because I’m afraid he’s right. The thing about therapy is that it’s so, I don’t know, evanescent. Are you healing? Are you helping? Are you doing nothing at all?’

  ‘I’m sure you—Mason, you need to use a knife to cut that.’

  Mason is hacking at the sausage with the tines of his fork.

  ‘Please, Mason. Stop that,’ says Veronica, regarding the vacant fourth seat that she is facing. With his left hand, Mason continues banging the table at precisely the same volume with the same infuriating frequency. Silas coughs, putting his hand over his mouth and apologizing. He has to clear his throat before he speaks.

  ‘Buddy,’ says Silas in a voice that contains a pleading note. The tapping becomes quieter, but does not disappear. Silas tears a chunk off the ciabatta loaf and dips it in the olive oil and balsamic.

  ‘This balsamic is good,’ he says, chewing the bread.

  ‘Waitrose,’ says Veronica.

  ‘How much did it cost?’

  ‘I don’t recall.’

  Silas considers this and decides to let it rest or, at least, leave it for a more opportune moment.

  ‘Look, Veronica. I’m sure you do make a difference to your clients,’ he says absently, cutting into his own food.

  ‘There’s no real way of knowing.’

  Silas nods as if this settles the matter to his satisfaction.

  ‘You don’t really care about what I do at work, do you, Silas? You pretend you do, but you don’t.’

  Silas prepares his ‘that’s not fair’ face.

  Suddenly the tapping from Mason feels like hammer blows to her head. Veronica reaches over and snatches the knife out of his hand.

  ‘Fuck you!’ says Mason, jumping down from the table.

  ‘Mason – language, please,’ says Veronica.

  ‘ “Language, please”,’ he mimics infuriatingly. ‘You’re not my mother, bitch!’

  He runs out of the room, kicking at the kitchen cupboard hard as he passes it and rattling the crockery within. Veronica and Silas remain facing one another at an angle. Silas begins coughing again, more violently this time. He scratches his earlobe and takes a sip of water. Mason’s steps sound on the staircase as he runs upstairs to his room.

  ‘He’s just acting out,’ says Silas.

  ‘Does that forgive everything? Don’t there have to be consequences?’

  ‘You mean punish him?’

  ‘That exactly what I mean.’

  ‘I’m not sure punishment is that effective as a positive behavioural strategy. Rewarding good behaviour is always better than sanctions against bad. All the research says so. I’ll certainly talk to him about it, though.’

  ‘You’ll talk to him about him calling me a bitch and telling me to fuck off?’

  ‘I certainly will.’

  ‘How about him going to bed without any supper?’

  Silas looks down at his cutlery. Another coughing fit strikes. He waits until it ends.

  ‘It is what it is, Veronica. I’m not sure that getting nasty about it is a good long-term solution.’

  Veronica takes a long swig of wine from her glass.

  ‘This isn’t working,’ says Veronica, slamming the glass down so hard Silas fears it is going to shatter.

  ‘What isn’t?’

  ‘You, me and Mason.’

  Silas looks startled. His eyes droop; he shifts into puppy-dog mode.

  ‘Come on, Vronky. I know he’s got a few problems. Just wait till we hear from the ADHD Centre. It might be something we can treat.’

  ‘He drove my daughter out of the house. He’s abusive towards me.’

  ‘That’s not really fair. China has issues of her own.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘You can’t completely blame a twelve-year-old boy for the fact that China has left the house. All teenagers go through a difficult time. And China comes from… ’

  Silas hesitates nervously, tries to recalibrate the thought. Veronica pre-empts him.

  ‘A broken home? Is that what you were about to say?’

  ‘I was trying to think of a better way of phrasing it. China is part of a melded family. Like Mason. Like all of us.’

  ‘A broken home is a more accurate way of saying it, though, isn’t it?’

  Veronica stares resentfully at her supper, as if it was her food that was broken. Italian sausages with Puy lentils, red wine and garlic.

  ‘Aren’t you going to eat that?’ says Silas. ‘It’s from the cookbook you gave me for Christmas.’

  ‘I’m not really hungry.’

  ‘Mason hasn’t eaten any of his either. He must be starving.’

  Silas, carefully, as if fearing sabotage, picks up Mason’s plate. Veronica looks at him sharply.

  ‘I hope that’s going in the bin.’

  ‘Mason needs to eat. Anyway, these sausages were expensive.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Silas. He just had a tantrum and stormed off. You can’t reward him by taking him his supper in his room. And do you ever stop thinking about money?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be a good father if he didn’t eat. And it’s not fair of you to bring up money. Things are a bit tight at the moment.’

  ‘What makes you think you’re a good father in the first place?’

  The words slip out, half deliberate, half not. She is surprised to discover that she finds them intoxicating. Silas holds the shallow plate uneasily balanced in front of him, uncertain what to do with it.

  ‘I do try my best, Vronky.’

  She bites into a sausage. There is a faint taste of blood – the sausage is undercooked. She bolts it down and starts speaking again before she has fully finished the mouthful.

  ‘You’re a shitty father. You spoil him. You don’t provide him with any boundaries. You put him before our relationship, which is not going to have a good outcome. You can’t control him. He manipulates you. On top of that, it’s not that “things” are tight. It’s that you are tight. You won’t even give him pocket money.’

  Veronica takes another bite of the sausage. She licks her lips. She likes the slight rawness. She stares at Silas, challenging him to commit himself to a course of action.

  ‘I try to be kind. And he doesn’t need pocket money. He’d just waste it on sweets.’

  ‘Being kind can also be thought of as weakness.’

  ‘What am I meant to do?’

  ‘Not take him his meal for one thing.’

  ‘Veronica. Pumpkin. Are you feeling okay?’

  ‘What’s that meant to mean?’

  ‘You were saying the other day that your periods were drying up.’

  ‘Drying up? What am I, a fucking well?’

  ‘I didn’t know how to put it. I think you’re overreacting.’

  ‘So it’s just “hormones”, right? They’re not “drying up”. They’ve become slightly more irregular.’

  She stirs the flatleaf parsley into the lentils.

  ‘I didn’t mean that. I was just wondering if you were feeling unwell. What with you not eating your supper.’

  ‘I’m eating it now, aren’t I?’

  Silas begins coughing again. He stares at Mason’s plate, still held in front of him with one hand, the other over his mouth. When the coughing has receded, he takes a careful step in the direction of Mason’s room.

  ‘Seems to me that you’re the one that should be worrying about your health,’ says Veronica, plucking up some bread and dipping it in the lentils. She stares at a framed poster above the sink, a nineteenth-century illustration of common vegetables. She thinks how good it would be to stab the dull, inert potato with a sharp fork.

  ‘I’m fine. Just a tickle. Something went down the wrong way. Look, I’m sorry, Veronica. I swear to God, the last thing I want to do is upset you. But he’s my son. Try and imagine if it was China.’

  Veronica takes another swallow of wine. It tastes sour in her mouth. When she speaks again it is softly but distinctly.

  ‘Screw you.’

  Silas looks down at Mason’s plate as if the solution to his dilemma was buried among the lentils, then back up at Veronica who is pouring herself another glass, right to the rim.

  ‘If this is the way you feel, why did you get together with me in the first place? You knew I had a son. You knew it wasn’t always going to be easy.’

  Drinking again, Veronica feels her head swimming. She tries to bring her therapeutic training into play, to hold the space safely, but her words, when they emerge, still bear the taint of bitterness.

  ‘Because I thought you were honest. I’d had enough of lies with Frankie.’

  ‘I am honest.’

  ‘Maybe you are. But you’re also wound round that kid’s finger.’

  Silas stares at her. His expression, temporarily aggrieved, returns to its noncommittal default. Then he slowly turns towards the stairs and makes his way up, holding the plate in one hand, a knife and fork in the other.

  Veronica watches him walking away from her. She thinks of calling after him, but says nothing. She seems to feel something inside fracture. It is as if, inside her, continents are drifting.

  * * *

  When Owen finally comes home – it isn’t until after eleven that night – Nodge has gone from feeling guilty to feeling furious. JJ is watching TV, quietly sharing the sitting room with Nodge. There are aromatic candles burning and the lights are down low.

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ says Nodge to Owen in a low, controlled voice, as he sees his husband enter unsteadily through the front door. He rises from the sofa.

  ‘Just walking,’ says Owen quietly. He is soaked through with the rain and his cheeks are pale with cold.

  ‘And drinking.’

  ‘Walking and drinking.’

  Owen simply stands there, dripping, as if he is waiting for someone to tell him his next move.

  ‘Ought I to go?’ says JJ, noticing the shambolic figure standing in the doorway. ‘Sounds like you’ve got one or two matters to discuss between you, haha.’

  ‘We’re fine,’ says Owen.

  ‘Pull the other one; it’s got bells on. As my old mother used to say.’

  ‘Would you mind very much, JJ?’ says Nodge, politely gesturing towards the door to JJ’s room.

  ‘Not at all, not at all, sorry to be taking up the space. You alright, Owen?’

  ‘I’m just on top of the world, JJ. Hasn’t Nodge told you about it?’

  ‘We’ve barely spoken. Most of the time I’ve been in my room doing my accounts and playing chess on my computer. I got so bored I thought I’d come in here for a bit of junk TV.’

  As he speaks, JJ gathers his things – a cigarette pack, his phone and a book on chess strategy – and then retreats to his room, closing the door behind him. A few seconds later, the strains of ‘A Wand’ring Minstrel, I’ can be heard, even more off-key than usual.

  Nodge turns to Owen, who has now removed his coat, hanging it on the hook behind the door. He is wiping his hair dry with a tea towel.