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Eleanor had headed off into the night, back to the school where she taught English and history. Maserov was in the house they had bought together all those years earlier. He looked at the furniture, no longer new and never so alluring once it had left the catalogue. But it was theirs, held their history, absorbed it, soaked it up, a history only they knew or cared about; the artefacts of a shared life. Or was it just a chapter within a life? And was this distinction a choice, his choice?

Why did she want him back now, suddenly? Was it really simply because of the children? Why just now? And was getting back together again solely because of the children a good enough reason? Maserov dismissed the possibility that she was influenced by the prospect that he might be made a partner. This wasn’t the Eleanor he knew. He’d been an underpaid teacher when she’d agreed to marry him and a lawyer when she’d asked him to leave. Maybe she had found the drama teacher wanting. Or was it that Carla had hinted that the possibility of reconciling, a choice that had been Eleanor’s ever since she’d kicked him out, might be taken away from her? After all, Eleanor now knew at least of the existence of this mysterious female work colleague, someone Carla herself thought well of. It was likely more than one thing, he reasoned. If they got back together he’d have the chance to find out. If not, perhaps it wouldn’t matter. Until perhaps one day it would. And then it would be too late.

With the children asleep, at least for now, his mind was free to wander and he wasn’t sure it should. Rightly or wrongly, he thought of taming it with an update from Betga, who was apparently camped out in the reception anteroom of the Intensive Care Unit housing Malcolm Torrent.

‘Hey Betga, any news?’

‘Not yet,’ said Betga quietly. ‘I’m earning my bona fides with the nurse in charge. It takes time. She’s on a call now anyway. What are you up to?’

‘Eleanor’s had to go to parent–teacher night and I’m at our house minding our sleeping kids, wondering what’s going to happen to Mr Torrent, to my job, to my life. Eleanor’s said she wants me back. I’m looking at our furniture, remembering when we bought it, missing Jessica, missing Eleanor, the one I married, wondering if I move back in will she be the Eleanor who used to greet me with a kiss and an almighty hug or will it be the one who prefers to watch The Bachelor. And I’m missing Jessica. Did I mention that? Betga I’m tearing my hair out. I don’t know what to do.’

‘About what?’

‘About Jessica and Eleanor. Have you been listening?’

‘Yes, I have. Here’s my advice: enjoy the moment. Do nothing!’

‘Do nothing?’

‘Look, Maserov, whichever option you choose, there will be times in your life, and knowing you, many, when you will regret the choice and feel guilty you made it. Yes, of course you will. We’re all of us only human, especially you. You’re nothing but human.’

‘What a talent you have for making an innocuous comment with the remote possibility of a slightly positive interpretation sound unbelievably negative and belittling.’

‘Yes, I really should be in management. Do nothing for as long as you can. Enjoy the sweet nectar of possibility before you make a choice and fuck everything up.’

‘That’s really your advice?’

‘Yes, why does that surprise you? It’s because you keep looking for safety, by whatever name, in every corner of your brief and compromised existence. How many times do I have to remind you, dear Maserov, the very best you can do these days is to try to buy a little time before your worst fear becomes your neighbour, after which it becomes your overcoat, then your shirt, then your skin. If you really want to buy some time, learn how to write the algorithms that are taking every other bastard’s livelihood. But even that will be short-lived. There will eventually be an algorithm to write the algorithms sure as bribery follows day. You can occupy yourself, distract yourself trying to wake people up, prodding them into recognition of their own learned helplessness. But there’s no money in this and a person like you will be crushed to see just how fast your audience swipes left.’

‘Thanks, Betga. I feel much of my anxiety transforming into a kind of numb resignation with still just enough in reserve to resemble a living creature, albeit an immunosuppressed one, an ideal host for a homeless virus or two, a renovator’s dream for a couple of nucleic acid molecules in protein coats hoping to settle down and start a family.’

‘Will you stop worrying? At least you’re not bored. Look, whatever you do, you’ll always have me.’

‘Betga, you never told me what Hamilton did to you.’ There was an uncharacteristic silence.

‘Well, that’s another story . . . which I’m happy to tell you . . . Oh, got to go now! She’s off the phone. Wish me luck. I’m going to buy us all a big chunk of time. This could be the start of a brand new chapter in your life . . . and mine. Got to go.’

‘Betga? Betga?’

Betga had returned the phone to his pocket but whether deliberately or not, he hadn’t ended the call. So Maserov did.

He went for a walk around his old house. It was quiet. When he reached the kitchen he decided to pour himself a drink, Scotch on ice. Did he want to be a partner at Freely Savage? He was a guy who tried to hang on. Partnership wasn’t compatible with his self-image. Could he change his self-image? He tried calling Jessica to tell her what had happened to Malcolm Torrent. Or was it more important to tell her where he was? The call went through to voicemail, which was perhaps just as well since he couldn’t talk loudly for fear of waking the children. What did Eleanor drink now? Was there still the Scotch he liked or had she given it to the drama teacher? No, there was some. But it was a brand new, unopened bottle. Was that an enticement to come home or just a reflection of guilt? He was getting himself some ice when he was startled by his elder son.

‘Beanie! What are you doing in the kitchen?’

‘What are you doing in the kitchen?’ his son asked. His father hadn’t lived there in a while. It was a legitimate question for a five-year-old.