Chapter One

I’M THE kind of person who plans my spontaneity. Matt’s not on call this weekend and, apart from some CVs I’ve brought home, our weekend is free. Which means a structure is in place.

The CVs should only take a couple of hours; those that mention long gaps in employment and a large family to support are the hardest to read. Then, while I’m preparing supper, I’ll watch a video of last month’s men’s Wimbledon final; it’s how I like my sport, knowing from the start who’ll win. Supper is for catching up with my oldest friend, Dylan. Or, rather, meeting his new boyfriend.

The heat this summer has been relentless. Strangers complain to one another of discomfort. London Underground’s schedules have disintegrated, and, with them, commuters’ patience. Weather forecasters sound increasingly apologetic, as if they know their bulletins to be morally reprehensible. A vicar in South Wales declares the hellish temperatures to be a sign of God’s wrath over America’s homosexual bishop. And it seems to me that the known world is suffocating, and that this will be averted only when hand-knitted ghosts from our past are cast off.

And I’m reminded of Dad, currently snoozing upstairs. He and his friend Audrey are staying the weekend. This morning we went to what he calls the Stately Tate, meaning the old one. Escaped the heat by entering its coolness. I watched as, at eighty, he hurried down the corridor the way a mother might bustle into the kitchen to fetch treats. You’d never guess he’d had a minor stroke earlier this year. By the time Audrey and I, in our leisurely gossip, had finally caught up with him, my dad the erstwhile potter was busy studying the ceramics made by a well-known transvestite. Classical- shaped vases evoking genteel sensibilities, yet decorated with disturbing images and text. ‘Wonderful,’ my father wheezed, tears in his eyes. ‘Just exquisite.’

I wasn’t sure quite what to say. Did I really want Dad seeing pictures of abused children, or reading slogans about paedophiles? Did he even know they were there? Or was his approval, one artist to another, misconceived? I tried to lead him away.

He laughed. ‘If a tranny potter from Essex can find ways in this world to be comfortable in his own skin, Amber darling, then so can you!’ And his bony hands had patted mine.

I warned him years ago that Matt and I won’t be providing him with grandchildren. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to be a mother. Not even when I was little was I drawn to dolls or small animals like my friends were; some took home the class mice for the weekend, but I was never interested. And, in any case, my mother told me that girls who played with dolls that wet themselves were common.

As a teenager reading Jackie (when my mother hadn’t confiscated it), I fantasised about marrying the perfect boy, but never pushing a pram. Boyfriends came and went. Some of them I slept with. I asked none of them, in that dreamy post-coital haze, how many children they wanted. My last boyfriend was Matt.

Matt had been at school with Dylan. And I am for ever in Dylan’s debt for fixing us up. Matt is tall and sandy-haired, his skin a flush of beautiful freckles. When we first met, he reminded me of an antelope, his athleticism exuding the good health of a childhood spent on an orange farm. I often imagine him as a boy, with skinny bronzed limbs, and always with a ball of some description in his hands. And somewhere deep down I think that, in marrying him, I hoped to marry into a childhood of vast, blue skies and ripe fruit.

But first, of course, I had to have That Conversation. The one about having children. And, having fallen in love practically at first sight, I decided on full disclosure after we’d been dating only a fortnight. Better, I figured, to know up front than to torture myself for months or maybe years, and get it wrong. And so I cooked him coq au vin, and after a few beers, and wearing the white jeans Matt had told me made my bottom look peachy (I am nothing if not thorough), I confessed to a dormant maternal instinct. And Matt had covered my hands in his own and replied that he’d always felt ambivalent about children, and that in his view one needed to be very passionate indeed about the prospect of creating life. He had gone on to add that if he were to marry a woman desperate for children, he’d probably go on to be the father of a rugby team. But that that wouldn’t happen, because he wanted to marry me.

Part of me was shocked by the speed of this declaration, how it propelled us to a new land I hadn’t realised I longed to visit. And part of me felt relieved that finally I’d been found.

I turn my mind to the impending dinner party. That sweltering summer afternoon, I assemble ingredients. A childhood dazzled by Fanny Cradock and the Galloping Gourmet has fostered in me an addiction to mise en place. Dylan claims that I count out salt grains; that my food preparation is an art form which makes Shock and Awe look positively slipshod. I just like following recipes.

I throw scrag ends of leek into the bin and lean against the jamb of the French doors. I inhale the scent of parched soil, and watch Matt tidying the borders of our London garden. He calls it a window box on steroids. In our marital ecosystem, Matt is head gardener, my glossy-haired Mellors. Watching him do practical things makes my arms tingle. His tongue peeps out when he does manual tasks. Weeding, he has his back to me, its broad sweep lightly brown. Matt only has to stick his head out the window to tan a mellow shade of butterscotch. I want to go to him and place a kiss on his neck, to drink of his sweetness. Just then Matt turns and, leaning into the trowel, displays one of his warm smiles. These never fail to delight me, for when Matt smiles grooves appear on either side of his mouth, elegant punctuation marks drawing attention to something significant. From the moment Dylan introduced us, I was aware of Matt’s enviable warm spirit; with smiles so benevolent, they appeared to offer redemption.

‘What time are we expecting the Pol Roger Padre?’ Matt grins.

‘The usual – the minute you uncork the wine!’

The last of the sun grazes the top of the garden wall. Its colour reminds me of the carrot purée I’ve made in case Dylan’s on one of his short-lived food-elimination regimes.

‘Everything in the kitchen under control?’ Matt asks, getting up. His right knee creaks.

‘Of course,’ I say.

‘Dad and Audrey having their siesta?’

I grin. ‘Yes.’

‘Only, I was thinking of getting out of these,’ he pulls off his gardening gloves, ‘and having a quick shower.’ He wears that smile which is like chewing toffee.

I lead him inside.