Mum looked a little disheartened then remembered why we were all there and then looked at Father. Father kept reading his newspaper, unaware that his lobster had even been planted before him. Mum sat down, excited. ‘Okay, I’ll tell them,’ she said, as if that was ever under dispute. ‘Well, as you all know, it’s our thirty-fifth wedding anniversary this July.’ She gave us all a where has the time gone by look. ‘And as a way of celebrating, your father and I …’ she looked around us all, eyes twinkling, ‘have decided to renew our vows!’ Her excitement overtook her voice for the last three words and ended in a hysterical high-pitched shriek. Even Father lowered the paper to look at her, then noticed the lobster, folded away the paper and started eating it.

‘Wow,’ I said.

Many of my friends had gotten married in the last two years. There seemed to be an epidemic sweeping – as soon as one married, a whole load were engaged and sauntering down the aisle like puffed-up peacocks. I had seen reasonable, modern women be reduced to obsessive maniacs hell bent on traditions and stereotypes they’d spent all their working lives trying to fight – I had been a part of many of these rituals in unflattering, cheap off-coloured dresses, but this was different. This was my mother and this meant it would be monumentally, cataclysmically worse.

‘Philip darling, Daddy would love it if you would be his best man.’ Philip’s face reddened and he seemed to grow a few feet in his chair. He bowed his head silently, the honour so great he couldn’t speak. ‘Riley darling, would you give me away?’

Riley beamed. ‘I’ve been trying to get rid of you for years.’

Everybody laughed including my grandmother who loved a joke at my mother’s expense. I swallowed, because I knew it was coming. I knew it. Then she looked at me and all I could see was a mouth, a big smiling mouth taking over her whole entire face as if her lips had eaten her eyes and her nose. ‘Sweetheart, would you be my bridesmaid? Maybe we could do that with your hair again, it’s so lovely.’

‘She’ll get a cold,’ my grandmother said.

‘But she didn’t get one last night.’

‘But do you want to run the risk of her having one?’

‘We could get nice handkerchiefs made up in the same fabric as her dress, just in case.’

‘Not if it’s anything like the fabric of your first wedding dress.’

And there it was, the end of my life as I knew it.

I looked at my watch.

‘It’s such a pity you have to go soon, we have so much to plan. Do you think you could come back tomorrow and we could go through everything?’ Mum asked, excited and desperate both at the same time.

And here came the dilemma. Life or my family. Both were as bad as each other.

‘I can’t,’ I said, which was greeted by a long silence. Silchesters didn’t say no to invitations, it was considered rude. You moved around appointments and went to hell and back in order to attend every single thing that you were invited to, you hired lookalikes and embarked on time travel to uphold every single promise that had been made by you and even by somebody else without your knowledge.

‘Why not, dear?’ Mum’s eyes tried to look concerned, but screeched, You have betrayed me.

‘Well, perhaps I can come over, but I have an appointment at noon and I don’t know how long it will go on for.’

‘An appointment with whom?’ Mum asked.

Well, I was going to have to tell them sooner or later.

‘I have an appointment with my life.’ I said it matter-of-factly, expecting them not to have a clue what I was talking about. I waited for them to question and judge, and planned how to explain it was just a random thing that happened to people like jury duty, and that they didn’t have to worry, that my life was fine, absolutely fine.

‘Oh,’ Mum said in a high-pitched yelp. ‘Oh my goodness, well I cannot believe that.’ She looked around the rest at the table. ‘Well, it’s such a surprise, isn’t it? We are all so surprised. My goodness. What a surprise.’

I looked at Riley first. He was looking awkward, eyes down on the table, while he ran his finger over the prongs of a fork and softly spiked it with each one in a meditative state. Then I looked at Philip; his cheeks had slightly pinked. My grandmother was looking away as though there was a bad smell in the air and it was my mother’s fault but there was nothing new about that. I couldn’t look at my father.

‘You already know.’

Mum’s face went red. ‘Do I?’

‘You all know.’

Mum slouched in her chair, devastated.

‘How do you all know?’ My voice was raised. Silchesters didn’t raise their voices.

Nobody would answer.

‘Riley?’

Riley finally looked up and gave a small smile. ‘We had to sign off on it, Lucy, that’s all, just to give our personal approval to it going ahead.’

‘You what?! You knew about this?’

‘It’s not his fault, sweetheart, he had nothing to do with it, I asked him to get involved. There had to be a minimum of two signatures.’

‘Who else signed?’ I asked looking around at them. ‘Did you all sign?’

‘Don’t raise your voice, young lady,’ my grandmother said.

I wanted to throw Mum’s bread at her head or mush lobster cocktail down her throat and perhaps that was obvious because Philip appealed to everybody for calm. I didn’t hear how the conversation ended because I was racing up the garden – walking fast, not running, Silchesters didn’t run away – and getting as far away from them as possible. Of course I hadn’t left without excusing myself from the table, I can’t remember exactly what I’d said, I’d mumbled something about being late for an appointment and politely abandoned them. It was only when I closed the front door behind me, raced down the steps, and landed on the gravel that I realised I had left my shoes on the back lawn. I hobbled over the stones, biting the inside of my mouth to stop my need to scream, and drove Sebastian at his top speed down the driveway and to the gate. Sebastian backfired along the way as a kind of good riddance, however that’s when my great escape ended because I reached the electric gates and was trapped. I lowered my window and pressed the intercom.

‘Lucy,’ Riley said, ‘come on, don’t be angry.’

‘Let me out,’ I said, refusing to look the intercom in the eye.

‘She did it for you.’

‘Don’t pretend you had nothing to do with this.’

‘Okay fine. We. We did it for you.’

‘Why? I’m fine. Everything is fine.’

‘That’s what you keep saying.’

‘Because that’s what I keep meaning,’ I snapped back. ‘Now open the gate.’

CHAPTER FIVE

Sunday. It had loomed over me all weekend like that giant gorilla over that building in that film and finally it had plucked me into its evil clutches. I’d had a night full of various ‘me meeting life’ scenarios. Some had gone well, others not so well, one was entirely in song and dance. I had every conversation imaginable with life – in that weird dream way that made absolutely no sense when you woke – and now that I was awake, I was exhausted. I pressed my eyelids together again, squeezed them tight and forced myself to have a dirty dream about the cute guy on the train. It didn’t happen, Life kept bursting in on us like a judgemental parent catching a naughty teen. Sleep wouldn’t come, my head had already woken up and was planning things; smart things to say, quick retorts, witty comebacks, intelligent insights, ways to cancel the meeting without seeming insulting, but mostly it was planning my wardrobe. On that note, I opened my eyes and sat up. Mr Pan stirred in his bed and watched me.

‘Morning, Hilary,’ I said and he purred.

What did I want to say to my life about myself? That I was an intelligent, witty, charming, desirable, smart woman with a great sense of style. I wanted my life to know that I had it all together, that everything was under control. I surveyed my dresses on the curtain pole. I had pulled them all across to block out the sunlight. I looked at my shoes below them on the windowsill. Then I looked out the window to check the weather, back to the shoes, back to the dresses. I wasn’t feeling any of it; this was a job for the wardrobe. I leaned over and opened the wardrobe door and before it had fully opened, it hit the edge of the bed. It didn’t matter, I could see in just enough. The bulb inside the wardrobe had blown about a year ago and so I reached for the torch beside my bed and shone it inside. I was thinking, trouser suit, skinny fit, black tuxedo jacket, a touch of eighties revival shoulder pad; black vest; heels, 85mm. It said to me, Jennifer Aniston recent Grazia cover but it would hopefully say to Life, easy-going, relaxed but that I took my life seriously, suit-wearing-serious. It also said, someone has died and I’m going to their funeral, but I was hoping Life wouldn’t be thinking about death. I left Mr Pan sitting in a peep-toe double platform watching Gene Kelly in a sailor suit in On the Town with promises I’d take him outside in a few days. From the elevator I heard my next-door neighbour’s front door close. I pounded on the button to close the door, but I was caught. A trainer appeared through the crack in the closing doors and there she was.

‘Almost got away,’ she smiled. The doors slid open and the buggy was revealed. She manoeuvred it into the confined space and I was almost knocked back out into the corridor by the overloaded baby bag over her shoulder. ‘I swear it just takes me longer and longer to get out of the apartment every day,’ she said, wiping her shiny forehead.

I smiled at her, confused as to why she was talking to me – we never talked – then looked above her to watch the numbers light up as we moved down.

‘Did he disturb you last night?’

I looked into her buggy. ‘No.’

She looked shocked. ‘I was up half the night with him screaming the place down. I was sure I’d have the building banging on my door. He’s teething, the poor thing, his cheeks are flaming red.’

I looked down again. Didn’t say anything.

She yawned. ‘Still, at least the weather is nice this summer, nothing worse than being cooped up inside with a baby.’

‘Yeah,’ I said when the doors finally opened. ‘Have a good day,’ and I ran out ahead of her before she took the conversation outside.

I probably could have walked to the offices where I was due to meet Life but I got a taxi because the cute guy wouldn’t be on the train at this hour and I couldn’t rely on Sebastian to get me anywhere after yesterday’s trip up the mountains. Apart from that I wasn’t too sure where I was going and there was nothing worse than meeting your life with blistered feet and sweaty armpits. The building was visible from a mile away, it was a horrendous construction, a brown oppressive square high-rise block on stilts with steel windows, a giveaway to the age of the building when Lego architecture in the sixties was acceptable. As it was Sunday the building was deserted and the car park beneath the block was empty apart from one lonely car with a punctured wheel. The one that couldn’t get away. The security booth was unoccupied, the barrier was up. No one cared if the entire thing was airlifted and brought to another planet, it was so ugly and desolate. Once inside, the building smelled of damp and vanilla air freshener. A reception desk dominated the small lobby with a desk so high I could just make out the tip of a back-combed bouffant hair-sprayed head. As I neared I discovered that what I’d thought was air freshener was actually perfume. She sat painting thick nails with blood-red varnish, layering it so thickly it was gloopy. She was watching Columbo on a small TV monitor on the desk.

‘Just one more thing,’ I could hear Columbo say.

‘Here we go,’ she chuckled, not looking at me but acknowledging me. ‘He knows he did it already, you can tell.’ It was the American-pie woman I’d spoken to on the phone. While Columbo asked the murderer for his autograph for his wife she finally turned to me. ‘So what can I do you for?’

‘We spoke on the phone this week, my name is Lucy Silchester and I have an appointment with Life.’ I gave a high-pitched laugh.

‘Oh yes, I remember now. Lucy Silchester. Did you call that carpet-cleaning company yet?’

‘Oh … no, not yet.’

‘Well, here you go, I can’t recommend it no more than I already did.’ She placed the business card on the desk and slid it toward me. I wasn’t sure if she had brought it especially for me or if she was so enthusiastic about the company that she carried a suitcase of cards around with her to hand out to passers-by. ‘You promise me you’ll call now, won’t you?’

Amused by her persistence, I agreed.

‘I’ll just let him know you’re here.’ She picked up the phone. ‘Lucy’s here to see you.’ I strained my ear to hear his voice but I couldn’t make anything out. ‘Yes indeedy, I’ll send her on up.’ Then to me, ‘Take the elevator and go up to the tenth floor. Take a right, then a left, you’ll see him then.’

I made to leave then paused. ‘What’s he like?’

‘Oh, don’t you worry – you’re not scared, are you?’

‘No,’ I waved my hand dismissively. ‘Why would I be scared?’ Then I gave that same laugh that told everyone within a five-mile radius that I was scared, and made my way to the elevator.

I had ten floors to prepare myself for my grand entrance. I fixed my hair, my posture, my lips all pursed in a sexy but I-didn’t-know-it way; my stance was perfect, a few fingers of one hand tucked into my pocket. It all said exactly what I wanted to say about me but then the doors parted and I was faced with a ripped leather chair with a tattered women’s magazine missing its cover and a wooden door in a wall of glass with uneven Roman blinds. When I went through the door I was faced with a room the size of a football pitch filled with a maze of cubicles separated by grey partition walls. Tiny desks, old computers, tattered chairs, photos of people’s kids, dogs and cats pinned around the desks, personalised mouse pads, pens with pink furry things stuck on top, holiday photos as screen savers, birthday cards, random cuddly toys and multicoloured mugs that said things that weren’t funny. All those things people do to make their squalid little square foot feel like home. It looked exactly like my own office and it immediately made me want to pretend to photocopy something to waste some time.

I made my way down the maze of desks, looking left and right wondering what on earth I’d find, trying to keep the same cool friendly look while inside I was frustrated that my big meeting with Life was in this shithole. And suddenly there he was. My life. Tucked behind a grotty desk, head down scribbling on a ratty notepad with a pen that by the looks of his constant scribbles on a pad, wouldn’t work. He wore a wrinkled grey suit, a grey shirt and a grey tie with the triple spirals of life embossed on it. His hair was black and peppered with a little grey and was dishevelled, his face had a few days of stubble. He looked up, saw me, put down the pen, stood up, then wiped his hands on his suit leaving damp wrinkled marks. He had black rings around his eyes, his eyes were bloodshot, he sniffled and he looked like he hadn’t slept for years.

‘Are you …?’ I did a little playful smiley thing.

‘Yeah,’ he said blandly. ‘You’re Lucy,’ he held out his hand. ‘Hi.’

I bounced over to him, long strides, pretending to be oh so excited by the moment. I reached out and shook his hand, gave him the biggest smile I could possibly muster, wanting to please him so much, wanting to prove to him that I was fine, that everything was absolutely fine. His handshake was limp. His skin was clammy. His hand quickly slid away from mine like a snake slithering out of my grasp.

‘So,’ I said, overenthusiastically, sitting down. ‘We finally meet,’ I said mysteriously, trying to catch his eye. ‘How are you?’ I could tell I sounded over the top. The room was too big, too empty, too bland, too depressing for my tone but I couldn’t stop.

He looked at me. ‘How do you think I am?’

He said it rudely. Very rudely, in fact. I was taken by surprise. I didn’t know what to say. This wasn’t how people spoke to each other. Where was the pretence that we liked each other, that we were both happy to be there, that we’d meet again? I looked around hoping that nobody was listening.

‘There’s no one here,’ he said. ‘No one works on Sundays. They have lives.’

I fought my instinct to snap back. ‘But don’t other people’s lives work in this building too?’

‘No.’ He looked at me as though I were stupid. ‘I just rent this space. I don’t know what they do,’ he referred to the empty desks.

Again, I was taken aback. This was not how it was supposed to go.

He rubbed his face tiredly. ‘I didn’t mean to come across as rude.’

‘Well you did.’

‘Well I’m sorry.’ He said it without any amount of sincerity.

‘No you’re not.’

Silence.

‘Look …’ He leaned forward and I really didn’t mean to, but I leaned back. He had bad breath. It was a bit of an awkward moment. He sighed, then continued, ‘Imagine you had a friend who was there for you all the time and you were there for them, but they stopped being there for you as much as they used to which you can understand a little because people have things to do, but then they’re around less and less no matter how much you try to reach out to them. Then suddenly one day – nothing – they’re gone. Just like that. Then you write to them, and you’re ignored and then you write to them again and you’re ignored and finally you write to them again for a third time and they barely even want to make the appointment, they’re so busy with their job, their friends and their car. How would you feel?’

‘Look, I assume you’re referring to me in that little hypothesis but it’s ridiculous.’ I laughed. ‘Clearly it’s not the same thing. I would never treat a friend that way.’

He gave a wry smile. ‘But you would do that to your life.’

I opened my mouth but nothing came out.

‘So let’s just get started,’ he said, pressing the power button on the computer.

Nothing happened. We sat in an awkward awful tense atmosphere while he became frustrated with the computer. He pressed the power button over and over again, tested the socket, unplugged it, plugged it in again.

‘Just check the—’

‘I don’t need your help, thank you. Please take your hands off the—’

‘Let me just—’

‘Get your hands off the—’

‘… twiddle the connection here—’

‘I’d appreciate it if you’d just—’

‘There.’

I sat back. The computer made a whirring noise.

He took a slow breath. ‘Thank you.’

He didn’t mean it.

‘Where did you get that computer – 1980?’

‘Yeah, about the same time as you got that jacket,’ he said, eyes on the monitor.

‘That’s just childish.’ I pulled my jacket in tighter around me. I folded my arms, crossed my legs, looked away. This was a nightmare, this was worse than I ever could have imagined. My life was an absolute bastard with a chip on his shoulder.

‘What did you imagine this would be?’ he asked, finally breaking the silence.

‘I didn’t know what this would be,’ I said, still in a huff.

‘But you must have imagined something.’

I shrugged, then thought of one of the images I’d had of me and Life in a canoe somewhere picturesque, him rowing, me reading from a book of poetry in a pretty sun hat and a Cavali dress I’d seen in a magazine that I couldn’t afford – the magazine as well as the dress. I thought of me in a magazine doing my interview about Life with blowdried hair, a full face of make-up, contact lenses, a draped asymmetric dress, good lighting. Maybe even a vase of lemons and limes beside me. I sighed and finally looked at him again. ‘I thought it would be like a therapy session. You’d ask me about my job, my family, if I’m happy, that kind of thing.’

‘Have you ever been to a therapy session?’

‘No.’

He looked at me intensely.

I sighed. ‘Yes. Once. When I quit my job. It was around the time I dumped my boyfriend and bought a new apartment.’

He didn’t blink. ‘You were fired. Your boyfriend left you and you’re renting a studio flat.’

I gave him a weak smile. ‘Just testing you.’

‘It would help the whole process if you didn’t lie to me.’

‘They’re not lies if the end result is the same.’

He lit up a little, if that was possible for him. He undimmed anyway.

‘Tell me how that works.’

‘Okay, so if I was to say that I won the lottery then that would be a barefaced lie because I’d clearly have no money but I would have to live my life as if I was a millionaire which would be complicated to say the least, but if I say I quit my job it doesn’t matter because I no longer work there so I don’t have to keep up the pretence of going there every day. If I say I bought a new apartment, it’s not a lie because the fact is I don’t live in the old one any more and I’m living in a new one.’

‘And the last thing you said.’

‘What thing?’

‘About your boyfriend.’

‘It’s the same thing.’ To my surprise, I struggled saying it because I knew he wanted me to say it. ‘Saying that … I dumped him is the same thing as saying … you know … the other way around …’

‘That he left you.’

‘Well, yeah.’

‘Because …’

‘Because the outcome is still the same.’

‘Which is …’

‘That we’re not together.’ And on that note, my eyes filled up. I hated my eyes, the deceiving bastards. Mortified is not the word. I can’t remember the last time I cried over Blake, I was so over him I couldn’t even begin to explain it but it was like when someone asks you if there’s something wrong over and over again, and usually after a while something is wrong – you’re angry and you want to physically hurt them. The same thing was happening now, because he was making me say all those words, making me say them out loud in a method of trying to fool me into admitting something he thought I hadn’t dealt with; it was as though it was working and I was feeling sad for that person that he thought I was. But I wasn’t that person. I was fine. Everything was fine.

I wiped my eyes roughly before any tears fell. ‘I’m not sad,’ I said angrily.

‘Okay.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Okay,’ he shrugged. ‘So tell me about your job.’

‘I love my job,’ I began. ‘It gives me an enormous sense of satisfaction. I love working with people, the communication with the public, the innovative business environment. I feel like I’m doing something worthwhile, helping people, connecting with people, that I can direct them onto the right path, make sure that they are guided. Of course the enormous plus—’

‘Sorry to interrupt you. Can we just clarify what it is that you do?’

‘Yes.’

He looked down and read, ‘You translate instruction manuals for your company?’

‘Yes.’

‘And this company makes fridges, cookers, ovens, that kind of thing.’

‘Yes, they are the largest appliance-manufacturing firm in Europe.’

‘Okay, carry on.’

‘Thank you. Where was I? Of course, the enormous plus side to my work is the people I work with. They are the kind of people who inspire and motivate me to reach further and higher not just in my field of employment but in my life.’

‘Okay.’ He rubbed his forehead. It was flaky. ‘These people that you work with are the people you refer to, in private, as Graham the Cock, Quentin aka Twitch, Louise the Nosy Bitch, Mary the Mouse, Steve the Sausage and Edna Fish Face.’

I kept a straight face. I was quite impressed by my imaginative nicknames. ‘Yes.’

He sighed. ‘Lucy, you’re lying again, aren’t you.’

‘Not really. They do make me want to be a better person – better than them. They do make me want to reach further and higher in my office so that I can get away from them. See? Not a lie. Same outcome.’

He sat back and studied me, ran his hand across his stubble and I could hear the scratching sound.

‘Okay you want to hear the absolute truth about that job or about any job?’ I offered. ‘Fine. Here it is. I’m not one of those people who lives and breathes their job, I don’t take it so seriously that I want to stay longer than I’m paid for or want to socialise with the people I spend most of my waking hours with and would never choose to say more than two words to in the real world. I’ve stayed in that job for two and a half years because I like that gym membership is included, even if the gym equipment is crap and the room stinks to high heaven of smelly jockstraps, it saves me money on going elsewhere. I like that I get to use the languages I spent years finessing. I don’t have many friends who speak German, Italian, French, Dutch and Spanish with me.’ I tried to impress him with that.

‘You don’t speak Spanish.’

‘Yes, I know that, killjoy, but my employers don’t,’ I snapped.

‘What happens when they find out? Will you get fired – again – in a similar spectacular style?’

I ignored him and continued my spiel. ‘I don’t use the vomit word “passion” that I hear so many people use these days when they talk about their work, as if that alone will get you through the day. I do the job I’m paid to do. I’m not a workaholic.’

‘You don’t have the dedication.’

‘Are you advocating workaholicism?’

‘I’m just saying it takes a certain amount of consistency, you know, the ability to throw yourself wholly into something.’

‘What about alcoholics? Do you admire them too? How about I become one of them and you can be proud of my consistency?’

‘We’ve moved away from that analogy now,’ he said, irritated. ‘How about we just say straight out that you lack focus, consistency and dedication?’

That hurt. ‘Give me an example.’ I folded my arms.

He tapped a few keys on the keyboard, read for a while.

‘Someone at work suffered a heart attack so you pretended to the paramedics that you were his next of kin so that you could go in the ambulance and leave work early.’

‘It was a suspected heart attack and I was worried about him.’

‘You told the ambulance driver to let you off at the end of your block.’

‘The man had an anxiety attack, he was fine five minutes later.’

‘You’re half-assed, you waste time, you never finish anything that’s not a bottle of wine or a bar of chocolate. You change your mind all of the time. You can’t commit.’

Okay so that finally got to me. Partly because it was just rude but mostly because he was completely correct. ‘I was in a relationship for five years, how is that a problem with commitment?’

‘He left you three years ago.’

‘So I’m taking time to be with myself. Get to know myself and all that crap.’

‘Do you know yourself yet?’

‘Of course. I like myself so much I’m planning to spend the rest of my life with me.’

He smiled. ‘Or at least fifteen minutes more.’

I looked at the clock. ‘We have forty-five minutes left.’

‘You’ll leave early. You always do.’

I swallowed. ‘So?’

‘So nothing. I was just pointing it out. Would you like some examples?’ He tapped the keyboard before I had time to answer. ‘Christmas dinner in your parents’ house. You left before dessert. Didn’t even make main course the year before, a new record.’

‘I’d a party to go to.’

‘Which you left early.’

My mouth fell open. ‘Nobody even noticed.’

‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong. Again. It was noted.’

‘Noted by who?’

‘By whom,’ he corrected and pressed the down button over and over. I wanted to move to the edge of my seat but I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. I sat quietly looking around the office, pretending I didn’t care. And because I was pretending I didn’t care, I realised that meant I did.

Finally he stopped tapping.

My head whipped around to face him.

He smiled. Then he pressed the down button again.

‘This is ridiculous.’

‘I’m sorry, am I boring you?’

‘Actually, yes.’

‘Well, now you know how I feel.’ He stopped tapping. ‘Melanie.’

My best friend. ‘What about her?’

‘She was the girl who was peeved about your leaving early.’

‘Nobody says “peeved”.’

‘Quote, “I wish for once she could just stay until the end.” Unquote.’

I was a bit annoyed about that, I’m sure I could think of plenty of times I had stayed till the end.

‘Her twenty-first,’ he said.

‘What about it?’

‘The last time you stayed until the end of one of her parties. In fact, they couldn’t get rid of you, could they? You slept overnight.’

Tap, tap, tap.

‘With her cousin.’

Tap.

‘Bobby.’

I groaned. ‘She didn’t care about that.’

Tap tap tap.

‘Quote, “How could she do this to me on my birthday? My grandparents are here, everybody knows. I’m mortified.” Unquote.’

‘She didn’t tell me that.’

He just shrugged.

‘Why is this a big deal? Why are we talking about this?’

‘Because they are.’

Tap tap tap.

‘“I’m sorry she left, Mum, want me to go talk to her?” That’s Riley, your brother.’

‘Yeah, I get it.’

‘“No, sweetheart, I’m sure she’s got somewhere more important to be.” Unquote. You left your family lunch yesterday thirty-two minutes ahead of time in a rather dramatic fashion.’

‘Yesterday was different.’

‘Why was it different?’

‘Because they betrayed me.’

‘How did they do that?’

‘By signing off on my life audit.’

He smiled, ‘Now that’s a good analogy. But if they hadn’t, you wouldn’t be here, with me.’