the voice he often used when speaking to his mother: deeper than usual, a take-command nothing-fazes-me voice, punchy and no-nonsense. Sometimes, especially when drunk, Samantha would imitate Miles and Shirley’s conversations. “Not to worry, Mummy. Miles here. Your little soldier.” “Darling, you are wonderful: so big and brave and clever.” Once or twice, lately, Samantha had done this in front of other people, leaving Miles cross and defensive, though pretending to laugh. There had been a row, last time, in the car going home.
“You went all the way to the hospital with her?” Shirley was saying from the speakerphone.
No, thought Samantha, we got bored halfway there and asked to be let out.
“Least we could do. Wish we could have done more.”
Samantha got up and walked over to the toaster.
“I’m sure Mary was very grateful,” said Shirley. Samantha crashed the lid of the bread bin and rammed four pieces of bread into the slots. Miles’ voice became more natural.
“Yeah, well, once the doctors had told — confirmed that he was dead, Mary wanted Colin and Tessa Wall. Sam phoned them, we waited until they arrived and then we left.”
“Well, it was very lucky for Mary that you were there,” said Shirley. “Dad wants another word, Miles, I’ll put him on. Speak later.”
“‘Speak later,’” Samantha mouthed at the kettle, waggling her head. Her distorted reflection was puffy after their sleepless night, her chestnut-brown eyes bloodshot. In her haste to witness the telling of Howard, Samantha had carelessly rubbed fake tanning lotion into the rims.
“Why don’t you and Sam come over this evening?” Howard was booming. “No, hang on — Mum’s reminded me we’re playing bridge with the Bulgens. Come over tomorrow. For dinner. ’Bout seven.”
“Maybe,” said Miles, glancing at Samantha. “I’ll have to see what Sam’s got on.”
She did not indicate whether or not she wanted to go. A strange sense of anticlimax filled the kitchen as Miles hung up.
“They can’t believe it,” he said, as if she hadn’t heard everything.
They ate their toast and drank fresh mugs of coffee in silence. Some of Samantha’s irritability lifted as she chewed. She remembered how she had woken with a jerk in their dark bedroom in the early hours, and had been absurdly relieved and grateful to feel Miles beside her, big and paunchy, smelling of vetiver and old sweat. Then she imagined telling customers at the shop about how a man had dropped dead in front of her, and about the mercy dash to hospital. She thought of ways to describe various aspects of the journey, and of the climactic scene with the doctor. The youth of that self-possessed woman had made the whole thing seem worse. They ought to give the job of breaking the news to someone older. Then, with a further lift of her spirits, she recollected that she had an appointment with the Champêtre sales rep tomorrow; he had been pleasantly flirty on the telephone.
“I’d better get moving,” said Miles, and he drained his coffee mug, his eyes on the brightening sky beyond the window. He heaved a deep sigh and patted his wife on her shoulder as he passed on the way to the dishwasher with his empty plate and mug.
“Christ, it puts everything in perspective, though, doesn’t it, eh?”
Shaking his close-cropped, graying head, he left the kitchen.
Samantha sometimes found Miles absurd and, increasingly, dull. Every now and then, though, she enjoyed his pomposity in precisely the same spirit as she liked, on formal occasions, to wear a hat. It was appropriate, after all, to be solemn and a little worthy this morning. She finished her toast and cleared away her breakfast things, mentally refining the story she planned to tell her assistant.
II
“Barry Fairbrother’s dead,” panted Ruth Price.
She had almost run up the chilly garden path so as to have a few more minutes with her husband before he left for work. She didn’t stop in the porch to take off her coat but, still muffled and gloved, burst into the kitchen where Simon and their teenage sons were eating breakfast.
Her husband froze, a piece of toast halfway to his lips, then lowered it with theatrical slowness. The two boys, both in school uniform, looked from one parent to the other, mildly interested.
“An aneurysm, they think,” said Ruth, still a little breathless as she tweaked off her gloves finger by finger, unwinding her scarf and unbuttoning her coat. A thin dark woman with heavy, mournful eyes, the stark blue nurse’s uniform suited her. “He collapsed at the golf