The beers go quickly. Alice had a thirst and so, it appears, did Frank. She gets two more and when they are gone and there are no more beers left in the fridge, she crouches to her knees and pulls a bottle of Scotch from the bottom of the dresser. It’s pushing midnight and normally Alice would be watching the clock, imagining her precious seven hours being whittled away. But tonight she has no interest in the time. Time is irrelevant.
She stretches to her feet and reaches up for tumblers.
‘Mum?’
She turns at the sound of Jasmine’s voice.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Getting drinks,’ she replies.
‘For him?’
‘For Frank. And me.’
Jasmine arches her left eyebrow. ‘His name’s not even Frank.’
‘No,’ she says patiently, ‘but it’s better than nothing.’
‘Why is he even here? I thought he’d gone.’
‘Yes, well, so did I. But he came back.’
Jasmine nods, and then bites her cheek before saying, ‘Let’s hope no one finds out.’
Alice looks at her questioningly.
‘Kai and Romaine. And Derry. You should probably tell them not to tell anyone about him. In case, you know . . .’
Alice nods briskly. She doesn’t want to have this conversation now. ‘Anyway,’ she says, ‘it’s late. You need to get some sleep.’
‘No school tomorrow,’ she says, stifling a yawn.
‘Yes. But still. It’s late.’ Alice clutches the tumblers between her fingers, holding the bottle of Scotch in her other hand. She wants her daughter to go now. ‘Go on then,’ she says, mock sternly. ‘Off you go.’
Jasmine stares at her strangely for a long moment, as though she has something important to tell her, as though her young mind is whirring with unfathomable thoughts. But then, finally, she shakes her head and sighs and says, ‘Night, Mum. Be careful.’
The words still echo in Alice’s head as she carries the Scotch and glasses through to the living room. Be careful. She’s not sure she wants to be.
Hero has crawled on to Frank’s lap during her absence and he looks slightly overwhelmed by the sensation of six stone of solid Staffy.
‘Do you like dogs?’ she asks.
He smiles. ‘It looks like it.’
‘Well, don’t be too flattered. Hero likes everyone. She’s a total attention-junkie. He’s the one you want to work on.’ She gestures at Griff sitting guarded and watchful, chocolate-drop eyes going from Alice to Frank and back again as though he knows he’s being talked about. ‘He’s very fussy. Do you want me to get her off your lap?’
‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘It’s quite nice. She’s . . . reassuringly substantial.’
She pours them both a heavy measure of Scotch and passes one to Frank. ‘Cheers,’ she says, raising her tumbler. ‘To remembering.’
Frank clinks his glass against hers and he smiles. ‘And to you,’ he says. ‘For being so generous.’
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘I don’t know about generous. Stupid more like.’
‘Maybe both,’ he says.
‘Yeah. I’ll go with that. Story of my life. Generous and stupid.’
‘So.’ Frank takes a mouthful of his drink and grimaces. ‘What is the story of your life, exactly? Since we can’t talk about the story of mine.’
‘Oh Christ,’ she says, ‘you’ll wish you hadn’t asked.’
‘No,’ he says simply, ‘go on. Tell me about the maps.’
‘Ah.’ She looks into her drink. ‘The maps.’ She looks up again. ‘That’s my job. My business. My art.’ She laughs wryly.
‘They’re beautiful.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Where did you get the inspiration?’
‘You know, it all started with one of those huge road maps for cars, you know. My dad had one. A map of the whole of the United Kingdom. Gigantic thing. I used to leaf through it on long journeys, look at all the places I’d never been. I loved the textural contrasts, you know, between, say, the centre of London and the Highlands of Scotland. London was black with road markings. Scotland was white. Then Dad gave me his old car when I was eighteen and when I sold it a few years later I found the old road map in the glove compartment. Brought it in, found myself leafing through it again. Stuck at home with a baby, bored out of my mind. Decided to make something out of it. That, in fact.’ She gestures at a likeness of a very young Jasmine on the wall opposite.
‘That’s made out of maps?’
She nods.
‘Wow,’ he says. ‘It looks like a drawing. It’s amazing!’
‘Why, thank you. So, after that I bought up old map books whenever I could. I mean, you should see my room upstairs: I’m virtually hoarding them. And when I moved up here from London, I needed an income, so I started taking commissions. And then I opened a little online shop on the side for personalised birthday cards and stuff. And now I’m a professional full-time cutter-outer and sticker-oner of tiny bits of maps into flower shapes.’ She looks at him. ‘Told you my life was weird,’ she said.
‘Well, speaking as someone with no life whatsoever, I’d say that sounds pretty great.’
‘Yeah. It’s good. It’s weird, but it’s good. And means I can work round the kids, which is brilliant.’
‘Not to mention this lot.’ He indicates the dogs. ‘And them.’ He gestures at the iPad with its sinisterly glowing vignette of an empty room. ‘You’ve got a lot on your plate.’
‘Yes. I do. But no more than a million other women. Women are amazing, you know.’ She smiles and he smiles back.
‘I’ll have to take your word for it. Since I can’t actually remember any women.’
‘Well, you know me, and take it from me, I am completely amazing.’
He doesn’t laugh but he does smile. ‘OK. You are Woman A and from now on will be the benchmark for every other woman I meet.’
‘Oh Christ, I’ve become your mother!’
This time he laughs and as he rocks back his leg presses briefly against Alice’s leg and she feels it open up inside her, the big gaping hole of loneliness and neediness she’s been trying to ignore for six years. Outside the low-slung window a lightbulb on the string is fizzing and flickering. Finally it extinguishes completely and the room is suddenly a degree darker. She hears the floorboards creak overhead as a child makes its way to the bathroom. And then something remarkable happens. Griff, who has been watching their conversation from the other side of the room, suddenly unfolds his elegant legs and wanders towards them. Alice expects that he is coming for some fuss from her but instead the dog stops at Frank and rests his chin on Frank’s knee.
‘Oh,’ says Frank, cupping his hand over the dog’s skull. He looks up at Alice and smiles.
Alice looks from her dog to Frank and then back at her dog. Her stomach eddies. Griff, unlike Sadie and Hero, is her dog. She chose him from a rescue centre when he was a year old. He’s been with her since her London days, since before she had Romaine. He is the kindest, nicest dog in the world. But he is not a friendly dog. He keeps his distance from people. But here he is, offering himself up to a stranger, echoing, in some poetic way, Alice’s own subliminal desires.
‘You must be a good guy,’ she says. ‘Dogs always know.’
‘You reckon?’
‘I reckon.’ And then she feels something softening deep inside her, something that had once been tender and, over time, without her even noticing, became hard. She puts her hand over Frank’s hand where it rests on Griff’s tightly domed head. Frank brings his other hand to cover hers. And there it is. An exquisite moment of suspended existence beyond which lies the potential for everything. Remember, they might say in years to come, that night. When we first touched?
But for now there is the clank of the plumbing upstairs as a child flushes the toilet. Then there is the sound of footsteps coming down the wooden stairs. And there is Romaine in glorious disarray, eyes puffed with sleep, pulling at the sides of her off-white nightdress and saying, ‘Mummy. I keep waking up.’
Alice takes her hand from beneath his and sighs and says to him, ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’
But he’s already shifting in his seat, trying to dislodge Hero from his lap, putting down his tumbler of Scotch and saying, ‘You know, I’m shattered, actually. Is it OK . . .?’
‘Stay as long as you like,’ she says. ‘Any friend of Griff’s is a friend of mine.’
She takes Romaine’s outstretched hand and walks her up the stairs. ‘I’ll leave the back door unlocked,’ she calls down to him. ‘See you in the morning.’