‘So – what did you want to talk to me about?’ says Veronica, glancing at his face, which is more open and vulnerable than it once was and traced with lines of sadness. It evokes a certain tenderness in her that she did not expect. In the end it is she who takes his arm. He looks at it, surprised, but gladly accepts the gesture.

  ‘Do I have to want to talk to you about something? Can’t we just meet up occasionally for a walk without a reason?’

  ‘Sure. But you did say you wanted to talk to me about something.’

  They leave the fountain area and start walking west, in the direction of Kensington Palace. Frankie smells her scent, a different one to the one she used to wear, more spicy than floral.

  ‘How’s Silas?’

  ‘Busy being Silas.’

  ‘Now he does seem your type.’

  ‘He’s got all the surface credentials, I suppose.’

  ‘He’s not perfect, then?’

  ‘Nobody’s perfect.’

  ‘So how is he specifically not perfect?’

  Veronica wags her finger playfully.

  ‘Tut tut, Frankie – I’m not prepared to go there. I’m not going to discuss my relationship with Silas with you. Suffice to say – we rub along okay.’

  ‘That’s enough for you, is it?’

  ‘So,’ says Veronica, stopping for a moment and taking a deep breath. ‘What did you want to talk about, then?’

  ‘Our daughter.’

  A dog chases a squirrel, hopelessly, as the squirrel casually climbs the nearest tree. The grass is muddy and drenched, the path strewn with dead leaves. Frankie sees a leaf skeleton at his feet. He lets Veronica’s arm slide away from his, picks it up and examines it closely.

  ‘What about her?’

  He holds the skeleton up to the light and stares at it.

  ‘It’s such a beautiful thing,’ he says. ‘Like the ghost of a leaf.’

  ‘When did you come over so poetic?’

  Suddenly losing interest, he tosses the leaf aside.

  ‘China won’t see me, Veronica. I don’t know what I’m going to do about it. She’s my daughter. Without her I’m like… ’

  He points to the skeleton leaf as it skitters along the path in front of them.

  ‘Like that leaf. Nothing moors me. I’m all bone.’

  They start to walk again, inadvertently following the leaf as it skips, helpless in the wind.

  ‘She’s a teenager, Frankie. She’ll grow out of it.’

  ‘Can’t you put in a word for me?’

  ‘I do put words in for you.’

  ‘You do?’

  Veronica considers this.

  ‘I’ve never spoken against you.’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘Not for a while, anyway,’ she concludes, with the uneasy feeling that she has occasionally used their shared animus towards Frankie to bring them closer.

  They continue walking in comfortable silence until they arrive at a refreshment hut on the east side of the Princess Diana Memorial playground.

  ‘Cup of coffee?’ says Frankie.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Decaf flat white, right, soya milk. Correct?’

  ‘You know me so well.’

  ‘I used to.’

  He fetches the two coffees and returns. Cradling their drinks, they stroll over to the Elfin Oak, fenced off in front of the playground. Frankie turns and stares at the equipment in the play area, deserted in the freezing weather.

  ‘Do you remember I brought China here, the day my mum died?’ he says. ‘We played for a while. Under the water jets there. It was cold, even though it was summer. We laughed so much even though I was sad. So was she. I took her on the swings and she got frightened.’

  Frankie feels a sting in his eyes. He turns to Veronica, hoping that she will notice the fraction of a tear, thinking she might start seeing him as sensitive.

  ‘That China has disappeared for ever,’ says Frankie.

  ‘You sound bitter.’

  ‘I’m just disappointed.’

  ‘Everyone is disappearing all the time, Frankie.’

  Frankie nods and takes a sip of his coffee.

  ‘Thing is, Veronica. Listen. I’ve heard that China’s not too happy living in Brighton.’

  Veronica feels herself recoil slightly. The easy atmosphere between them tightens a notch.

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Client confidentiality. Sorry. Is it true?’

  Veronica turns and starts walking towards the Round Pond. In the distance, Frankie can see ducks, swans and pigeons crowding around an old man casting bread on the water. He follows her and catches up. They walk in silence for a few seconds.

  ‘There’s friction, like in any family. I think she does alright,’ Veronica answers eventually.

  ‘That’s not what I’ve heard. I’ve heard Silas and Mason are driving her up the wall.’

  ‘That’s not any of your business, Frankie.’

  ‘It is my business. She’s my daughter. I worry about her. Even if she thinks I’m a waste of space.’

  They arrive at the pond. Frankie reaches in his pocket and takes out what appears to be a half-eaten Danish pastry. He begins to crumble it and throw it towards the perimeter of the water. A flock of birds descends.

  ‘There are stresses in any family,’ says Veronica, watching the hysteria of the birds and the aloof dignity of the swans as they glide like emperors towards the site of the chaos.

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘I don’t really want to say.’

  ‘I hear Mason isn’t the easiest kid in the world.’

  ‘I can’t really comment.’

  ‘You’re proper chatty, aren’t you? Want a go?’

  He hands the remainder of the pastry to Veronica, who throws the whole piece into the water. A swan picks it up in his beak, then spits it out.

  ‘I’m just trying to be discreet, Frankie. I would be the same if I talked about you to Silas.’

  ‘So – will you tell Silas that you’ve met me today?’

  Veronica fidgets with the clip of her handbag.

  ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

  ‘He might be the jealous type. I don’t know.’

  Veronica strokes some crumbs from the pastry off her sleeve and, finishing her coffee, deposits it in a litter bin.

  ‘Frankie – what are we doing here? It’s cold and I’ve got a train to catch.’

  ‘It’s just nice to see you, that’s all.’

  She turns towards him, regarding him fondly.

  ‘It’s nice for me too. What’s happening at the agency?’

  Frankie raises his eyes to the heavens.

  ‘Same old same old. But they’re going to offer me a partnership. Apparently.’

  ‘Didn’t they promise you that once before? And then stiffed you?’

  ‘No, no, no. They really are this time. It was Ratchett that torpedoed it that time. Out of malice and greed. And he’s dead. Thank God.’

  ‘Frankie!’

  ‘Yeh, well, he was a nob. I don’t love Farley, but I think the promise is cast iron. He’s a bit of a pompous muppet, but he’s trustworthy in a way that Ratchett – God rest his stinking black soul – was very much not. It will mean a big hike in my salary. Very hard work, but a secure future.’

  Veronica does up another two buttons on her coat against the cold. The wind is picking up force and scooping up water on the Round Pond into ripples and pools.

  ‘Congratulations. You must be very pleased.’

  ‘Thank you. I am, I suppose.’

  ‘Still saving for the dream car?’

  She throws him a sideways look that he knows well of old.

  ‘Don’t take the piss.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘I can see from your face that you are. I know you think it’s hilarious that I should be so invested in a particular car, but after the years I’ve been through – I don’t know. It represents something to me. Getting back on my feet. Not being a… a loser anymore.’

  Veronica pats him softly on the arm.

  ‘Frankie – you’re not a loser. You had some bad luck. That’s all.’

  ‘That’s a change of story. I thought you thought it was all down to me.’

  ‘Well, okay. You lied. You cut corners and got found out. But you also had some bad luck. 2008 was a lot of bad luck for a lot of people. Including me and China, of course.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

  Veronica, still touching his arm, rubs at the material of his jacket softly.

  ‘I’ve told you before. You don’t have to apologize anymore. It’s water under the bridge. It makes no difference now.’

  Franke takes a step away, suddenly businesslike. There is, after all, a reason for him meeting with Veronica today.

  ‘It does as far as China is concerned. Which is why I wanted to talk to you.’

  ‘Now we get to it. Come on, I really do have to go.’

  She rubs her hands together against the cold. Her breath makes momentary clouds. Frankie stares at the clamouring birds squabbling as they consume the remaining crumbs of the pastry.

  ‘I was wondering if you could talk her into coming to stay with me for a while? Maybe a month or two. I’m hoping we might begin at last to repair our relationship.’

  Veronica shakes her head sadly.

  ‘I wouldn’t hold out too much hope. She’s got a lot of baggage to unpack.’

  ‘All the same – if she doesn’t like Silas or Mason… ’

  ‘I didn’t say that – did I?’

  Frankie turns to face Veronica full on, but can hardly bear to look at her face since it fills him with longing.

  ‘I just thought – with some gentle encouragement from you we could kill two birds with one stone. Take a bit of pressure off you and Silas. And China and I could get to know one another a bit better.’

  ‘Frankie – China will do whatever she wants. She’s nineteen years old. She won’t listen to me. She’s very strong-willed.’

  ‘She worships you.’

  ‘No – she doesn’t. But we have a good relationship – yes.’

  ‘I’m glad of that. Really I am. But she might listen to you if you tell her that… I don’t know… that… ’

  Frankie suddenly runs out of thought.

  ‘That she should try and keep in touch with her father more,’ he blurts finally.

  ‘ “Should” isn’t a word that goes down well with her.’

  ‘Will you try?’

  ‘No harm in trying. But I wouldn’t hold your breath.’

  Frankie nods, satisfied. He knows that Veronica will keep to her word.

  ‘Now I really do have to go, Frankie.’

  She takes a step forward and embraces Frankie. He brings his arms around and feels her angular shoulder blades with the tips of his fingers and he finds himself gently exploring them through the thick cloth. How well he remembers them, when he was allowed to touch them, to explore the bare skin. To kiss them. The hug lasts longer than either of them have planned. It is Veronica again who pulls away first.

  ‘Bye, Frankie. Stay well. And give Roxy my love.’

  ‘Sure. And tell Silas to fuck off from me.’

  Veronica laughs.

  ‘Same old Frankie.’

  ‘No, actually. Not at all,’ he answers. But she has swiftly turned away and is walking towards the southern entrance of the park so does not hear him.

  Chapter Three

  New Year’s Day 2020: London

  Frankie has noticed that Roxy is importing more and more of her clothes into his closet. It makes him uneasy. Apart from anything else, what was going to happen if China finally did decide to stay for a while? She would not appreciate seeing another woman’s knickers in the laundry basket, metaphorically or literally.

  He glances at Roxy, who is relaxing on the living room sofa, watching Love Island on the 55-inch TV and checking her phone. She is painting her fingernails bright green. Above the television, a framed Sebastião Salgado print of a Brazilian goldmine, hundreds of miners crawling like ants up and down a great mountain of mud. She has bleached her hair to pale blonde and cut it shorter. It makes her look both younger and older simultaneously.

  ‘Shall we get a takeaway?’ says Frankie.

  ‘Again?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Be nice if you cooked me something sometime.’

  ‘Be nice if you cooked me something.’

  ‘Because I’m the woman, you expect me to look after you.’

  Frankie cannot muster an immediate counterpunch. He is still melancholic from his meeting with Veronica earlier that day. For some reason he cannot fathom, he has not told Roxy that he met with her.

  ‘I’ve cooked for you loads over the last few weeks.’

  ‘Beans on toast isn’t cooking.’

  ‘You haven’t lifted a finger.’

  ‘What time’s the football on?’ says Roxy, yawning.

  ‘Do you really want to watch it? It’s one shit team versus another shit team.’

  ‘I didn’t know QPR were playing.’

  ‘Hilarious. What’s the point anyway, since you spend most of the time staring at your phone rather than the match? Watching football with you is a very partial experience. Anyway, it’s not QPR on the telly.’

  Frankie turns towards the grapefruit-sized black globe on the coffee table, a Christmas gift from Roxy.

  ‘Alexa.’ The base of the unit flashes blue. ‘What time is the Manchester United vs Arsenal game today?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t have that information.’

  ‘Alexa, you’re a muppet.’

  ‘Sorry this might not be what you want to hear, but I’m not sure what I did wrong.’

  ‘I still get a kick out of that,’ says Frankie as Roxy continues to scroll through her phone. ‘Do you know if you tell Alexa that you love her she sings you a song?’

  ‘You’ve been telling Alexa that you love her?’ says Roxy, not looking up.

  ‘She’s the perfect woman. She always listens and she always says sorry. You’re the perfect woman, aren’t you, Alexa?’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t know that title.’

  Finding Sky Sports, Roxy finishes painting her nails on the left hand, puts down the brush and scratches her nose with the other unpainted index finger.

  ‘Takeaway it is, then,’ she says.

  Frankie picks up his phone. There are three texts, none of them from China. He has been thinking of driving down to Brighton to see her, but so far has had no response to his pleas for a day on which China was available.

  ‘So when are you going to cook me a meal?’ asks Roxy.

  ‘Dunno,’ says Frankie, fetching a beer from the fridge and settling down to watch the match, despite himself.

  ‘How about the last Saturday of next month?’

  Frankie sucks the beer down slowly, giving him time to think about whether there is a hidden significance to this question or this date. Finding none, he lowers the can.

  ‘Is there something special about the last Saturday of next month?’

  ‘It’s our anniversary.’

  Frankie burps and gives an incredulous laugh.

  ‘Our what?’

  ‘Six months since we started seeing each other.’

  ‘But who’s counting?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘We’ve been seeing each other for the last twenty years.’

  ‘You know. Seeing, seeing.’

  Frankie casts his mind back to when they actually started their relationship. It had been quite unexpected. Their friendship, after Colin died, had been intermittent. Veronica was a closer friend to Roxy for the first few years after their divorce. But after Veronica moved to Brighton, the relationship had shifted in the direction of him and Roxy, if only because they lived close to one another. Towards the end of summer 2019 they had found themselves, to their mutual surprise, sharing a bed after an otherwise innocent movie and a Chinese meal with a little too much rice wine.

  ‘A six-month anniversary of a first shag is a thing?’

  ‘It is in my book.’

  ‘You don’t read books.’

  ‘The book, Frankie,’ she says, mock-melodramatic, ‘of my life.’

  He has always liked Roxy, he reflects. Up to a point. She seems to him everything Veronica is not. Crude, straightforward, rough at the edges, and unashamed about everything. Her philosophy was simple: take your pleasure where you can find it and don’t worry too much about the consequences. Also – they share memories. Of Colin, of his mother, of the house he lived in with Veronica and China in North Kensington. Roxy’s feels like a bridge to Frankie’s past.

  At the same time he can’t escape the idea that in forming a relationship with her, he has moved down a notch on the social scale. Veronica had been a pathologist, a proper medical professional, when he met her, twenty years ago, and now she has a successful psychotherapy practice. The fact that Roxy had worked in a shop before she married Colin and now has a nail bar rankled with him, plus the fact that she has not a single A-level to her name.

  Frankie condemns himself for being a snob, but can never quite push away the thought. Not that she was an idiot. Far from it. After Colin died and left her a chunk of money, she had tried to set up in business on her own. Gourmet popcorn. It had been a failure in the long run, but she had learned a lot about running businesses and there was plenty of money left.

  Her next venture, the nail bar in Hammersmith, had been ahead of trend and she had started to make a profit almost immediately. Now she had three of them operating in west London. The pampering business was a good scam. She offered free prosecco to clients and her overheads were cheap, as were the Thai girls she got to work for next to nothing, mostly off the books. Nowadays she worked even harder than Frankie, who was labouring heavily to finally secure his partnership with Farley & Ratchett, so they had relatively little time to spend with one another.

  ‘Knock knock,’ says Roxy, uneasy with the growing tension generated by Frankie’s lack of response.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Knock knock.’

  ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘Control freak.’