the bloody boredom of listening to you and your parents whining about the Fields for the rest of our natural lives—’
‘Our natural lives?’ he smirked. ‘As opposed to—?’
‘Piss off,’ she spat. ‘Don’t be such a bloody smartarse, Miles, it might impress your mother—’
‘Well, frankly, I still don’t see what the problem—’
‘The problem,’ she shouted, ‘is that this is about our future, Miles. Our future. And I don’t want to bloody talk about it in four years’ time, I want to talk about it now!’
‘I think you’d better eat something,’ said Miles. He got to his feet. ‘You’ve had enough to drink.’
‘Screw you, Miles!’
‘Sorry, if you’re going to be abusive…’
He turned and walked out of the room. She barely stopped herself throwing her wine glass after him.
The council: if he got on it, he would never get off; he would never renounce his seat, the chance to be a proper Pagford big shot, like Howard. He was committing himself anew to Pagford, retaking his vows to the town of his birth, to a future quite different from the one he had promised his distraught new fiancée as she sat sobbing on his bed.
When had they last talked about travelling the world? She was not sure. Years and years ago, perhaps, but tonight Samantha decided that she, at least, had never changed her mind. Yes, she had always expected that some day they would pack up and leave, in search of heat and freedom, half the globe away from Pagford, Shirley, Mollison and Lowe, the rain, the pettiness and the sameness. Perhaps she had not thought of the white sands of Australia and Singapore with longing for many years, but she would rather be there, even with her heavy thighs and her stretch marks, than here, trapped in Pagford, forced to watch as Miles turned slowly into Howard.
She slumped back down on the sofa, groped for the controls, and switched back to Libby’s DVD. The band, now in black and white, was walking slowly along a long empty beach, singing. The broad-shouldered boy’s shirt was flapping open in the breeze. A fine trail of hair led from his navel down into his jeans.
V
Alison Jenkins, the journalist from the Yarvil and District Gazette, had at last established which of the many Weedon households in Yarvil housed Krystal. It had been difficult: nobody was registered to vote at the address and no landline number was listed for the property. Alison visited Foley Road in person on Sunday, but Krystal was out, and Terri, suspicious and antagonistic, refused to say when she would be back or confirm that she lived there.
Krystal arrived home a mere twenty minutes after the journalist had departed in her car, and she and her mother had another row.
‘Why din’t ya tell her to wait? She was gonna interview me abou’ the Fields an’ stuff!’
‘Interview you? Fuck off. Wha’ the fuck for?’
The argument escalated and Krystal walked out again, off to Nikki’s, with Terri’s mobile in her tracksuit bottoms. She frequently made off with this phone; many rows were triggered by her mother demanding it back and Krystal pretending that she didn’t know where it was. Dimly, Krystal hoped that the journalist might know the number somehow and call her directly.
She was in a crowded, jangling café in the shopping centre, telling Nikki and Leanne all about the journalist, when the mobile rang.
‘’Oo? Are you the journalist, like?’
‘…o’s ’at… ’erri?’
‘It’s Krystal. ’Oo’s this?’
‘…’m your… ’nt… other… ’ister.’
‘’Oo?’ shouted Krystal. One finger in the ear not pressed against the phone, she wove her way between the densely packed tables to reach a quieter place.
‘Danielle,’ said the woman, loud and clear on the other end of the telephone. ‘I’m yer mum’s sister.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ said Krystal, disappointed.
Fuckin’ snobby bitch, Terri always said when Danielle’s name came up. Krystal was not sure that she had ever met Danielle.
‘It’s abou’ your Great Gran.’
‘’Oo?’
‘Nana Cath,’ said Danielle impatiently. Krystal reached the balcony overlooking the shopping centre forecourt; reception was strong here; she stopped.
‘Wha’s wrong with ’er?’ said Krystal. It felt as though her stomach was flipping over, the way it had done as a little girl, turning somersaults on a railing like the one in front of her. Thirty feet below, the crowds surged, carrying plastic bags, pushing buggies and dragging toddlers.
‘She’s in South West General. She’s been there a week. She’s had a stroke.’
‘She’s bin there a week?’ said Krystal, her stomach still swooping. ‘Nobody told us.’
‘Yeah, well, she can’t speak prop’ly, but she’s said your