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  At first, Ben thought she was singing silently. From the corner of his eye, he assumed Cat was miming along to Axl, imitating his physiognomic contortions. But a swift glance across at her and he realized she was hyperventilating, tears streaming, her face racked in torment.

  ‘Oh babe,’ he said, while thinking to himself that he was driving at eighty miles an hour and wondering if he could pull over to the hard shoulder. He placed his hand on her knee. ‘It's OK. It's OK.’

  ‘It's not!’ she cried. ‘Nothing's OK. And I can't breathe. Help me.’

  ‘In through your nose, out through your mouth, in through your nose, out through your mouth,’ Ben chanted at her, calm but insistent. ‘Cat, breathe into that paper bag. Down there – that the bananas came in.’

  ‘It has rubbish in it.’

  ‘Take the banana skin out. Throw it on the floor. Put the bag against your mouth and breathe into it. Come on Cat – in through your nose, out through your mouth, in through your nose, out through your mouth.’

  With the music hammering and Cat sucking and blowing into the bag, Ben thought it ludicrously plausible that she should look like some solvent-abusing rock chick.

  ‘I want to stop.’

  ‘Babe, I can't stop on the hard shoulder. There's a services in a couple of miles. In through your nose and out through your mouth.’

  ‘I need to stop,’ Cat gasped. ‘Stop the car.’ Ben swerved the car to the hard shoulder. He flicked on the hazard lights, unclipped his seat-belt and leant across to hold his wife. However awkward and uncomfortable the angle for him, he knew it was nothing compared to the pain she was in. There were hundreds of questions he wanted to ask but of course he refrained. There'd be time for that. Way too much time. Just now, he knew there was not much he could say at all. His job was to hold her and fill her ears with comforting hushing, place the tender kisses on her forehead and keep her freezing cold hands warm within his. He promised her, over and over again, that everything would be all right though he hadn't the faintest idea how to fulfil such a pledge.

  ‘I can't believe it. I Don't know what happened. What does it all mean? I Don't want anything to change. Life will never be the same again.’

  No. Oh fuck no. Not the fucking police. Blue lights flashed up behind Ben's car and an officer walked over. Ben racked his mind for explanations, excuses, lies – anything would do. He wound down his window.

  ‘Everything OK?’ the policeman asked, peering in to the interior of the car and politely overlooking the state of Cat's tears-ravaged face for the time being.

  ‘Yes,’ said Ben, ‘fine.’

  ‘Your car OK, sir?’ the officer asked. ‘Broken down?’

  Ben faltered. It was his wife who had broken down. Wasn't that glaringly obvious?

  ‘Everything all right?’ the officer asked again, now looking directly at the sobbing, shivering heap of Cat half in Ben's arms.

  Ben didn't know what he ought to say. ‘I. It's. She.’ He shrugged. ‘It's personal.’

  Suddenly Cat looked up. ‘Someone died,’ she told the officer. ‘I've only just heard. It's my uncle, who brought me up. He's now dead.’

  The officer spoke quietly to Ben. ‘You need to move along, sir. It is an offence to stop on the hard shoulder. There's a services a few miles on. Take her there.’

  Back on the M1, Cat continued to sob, alternating sucks on the paper bag with great soul-crushed wails while Axl Rose still blared out about bad apples and dead horses.

  ‘It hurts,’ she cried. ‘Christ the pain, Ben.’ ‘I know, babe, I know.’ ‘You Don't! You can't possibly! No one does!’

  Ben thought about this. It was true. ‘I know. You're right. I can only begin to imagine. I'm sorry. But they know,’ he said, ‘your sisters.’

  ‘It's not the same, I'm nothing like them. They're the ones who are sisters. They still have an uncle called Django.’

  Ben drove on in contemplative silence, one hand on the wheel, the other on Cat's knee. Perfectly true. The mother's reappearance was to some extent irrelevant. Much more of a shock to discover at the age of thirty-two that your father is in fact alive and that half of each sister didn't actually exist.

  ‘In through your nose, Cat, out through your mouth. Good girl. Good girl.’

  ‘I Don't know who I am,’ Cat sobbed. ‘I'm not who I grew up thinking I was.’

  Junction 23a

  Matt's eyes scanned a constant triangle: ahead to the motorway, sideways to Fen, to the back to Cosima and then forward to the motorway. The traffic was light and driving conditions were good. The baby was dozing contentedly – her thumb had fallen from her mouth but her sucking reflex continued regardless, her cheeks dimpling and the underside of her chin pulsating rhythmically. Fen's gaze was directed out of the window but it was obvious she wasn't admiring the view. She usually commented on the cooling towers near Nottingham but they'd passed them, solid and peaceful and elephantine, yet She'd said nothing. Nor had she remarked on the radio listening station outside Rugby, as she was wont to do; today the slightly alarming, sci-fi forest of antennae in the lie of the two motorways was spared Fen's customary comparison with a Ridley Scott film set.

  Every few miles, Matt had placed his hand on her knee with a supportive stroke or squeeze and asked her if she was OK. Each time, She'd reply that she didn't know. And Matt would ask if she wanted to talk. And She'd shake her head and return her attention to the hard shoulder.

  Matt scanned his triangle of interest again. The motorway and Cosima were doing as he wanted, Fen remained beyond reach. He put his hand over hers.

  ‘You OK, Fen? Do you want to talk?’

  Don't block it out, Fen. It's not healthy. Don't block me out, Fen. It's not good for us.

  ‘Fen, you OK?’

  ‘Life will never be the same again, Matt.’

  That's what worries me, Fen, That's what worries me most.

  Junction 16

  Aren't grown-ups odd. It's not a question, It's a statement. We'd already been in the car for years and I was trying to ask what name I should call Django Gramps from now on. Dad gave me one of those looks with his eyebrows that told me to zip it. Then Pip suddenly starts talking about dandelions. But the thing is, she finished talking about dandelions ages ago and we are all still sitting in silence. It's boring. Motorways are for singing and ‘I-Spy’ and playing ‘I-love-my-love-with-an-A’ all through the alphabet. I'd even secretly practised in case I had ‘q’ or ‘z’. For ‘z’ I found the name ‘Zuleika’. Imagine that! you'd change it wouldn't you, change it to something like Zara or Zoe. Like if you were called Derek it would certainly be a good idea to change it to something like Django.

  I couldn't even join in about the dandelion – I was going to ask Pip if it was a metaphor because I thought it probably was because Miss Balcombe was teaching us about metaphors in English last week. But just as I was about to, Dad gave me another ‘zip it’ look with his eyebrows. I wonder if it is a metaphor or whether it is a simile or something. I'll ask my mum. Anyway, Pip starts going on about how in an instant her family is suddenly scattered and flung far beyond reach. She says she and Fen and Cat were like the seed head of a dandelion, that Django was the stalk around whom they gathered and clung to. And then that woman comes along and blows them away and Pip doesn't know where They'll all fall but that she does know it is now impossible for them to be the same dandelion ever again. Or something like that.

  ‘Dad, I really really need a wee soon.’

  ‘Can you hang on until the next service station – about ten minutes?’

  ‘OK. Dad?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Shall we play I-love-my-love-with-an-A?’

  ‘Er. Not just now.’

  ‘I'm bored.’

  ‘For goodness' sake.’

  ‘It's natural for a kid to be bored in a car – That's why they invented games like I-Spy and I-love-my-love. And now they've invented cars with DVD players in the seats for the kids – so I suggest you get one of t
hose next time.’

  ‘Could you please pipe down, Tom. I'm driving.’

  ‘Tom, I'll play I-love-my-love with you.’

  ‘Well, if You're going to do “u”, I'll do “z” – we Don't have to do it alphabetically, Pip. We can make it more complex.’

  ‘I meant you not “u”.’

  ‘Oh. I'll start with “z” anyway. But can I just ask one very quick, small question first?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Am I still his grandsonthing-or-other?’

  ‘I'm sure you are.’

  ‘Phew. One other minute question – can I still call him Django Gramps or do I have to change it to Derek? I've been thinking about it and Derek Gramps doesn't sound right – but I was thinking Grandpa Derek sounds all right.’

  ‘Tom, will you please just button it.’

  ‘It's OK, Zac, It's OK. Tom – I Don't know. It's very complicated and I can't tell you anything at the moment. I'm sorry.’

  ‘I was just thinking that it would be as strange as having to call you Philippa all of a sudden. I mean it is your name but It's not your name. You're Pip. Do you see?’

  ‘Tom – last warning.’

  ‘Zac – It's all right. Tom, listen, I need some grown-up time to come up with some answers for you.’

  ‘Oh. OK. The very very last thing I was just going to ask – is Cat still your sister, though?’

  ‘Tom!’

  ‘It's OK, Zac. Of course she is, Tom. She'll always be my sister.’

  London

  In previous times of crisis, the siblings had always turned to each other, and of course Django, for support and advice. In the past, there had always been an easily accepted hierarchy of need because crises had never befallen them simultaneously. They've always had each other to turn to, to consult. They've never had cause to crave attention; they've never had to shout to be heard. Never had to face fears alone or mop tears unaided. Long distance, middle of the night, intrusive, time-consuming, occasionally expensive, sometimes frustrating – but always there, always there. That's what families are for. Families matter. But until now, the McCabes have never confronted family matters. Nor have their crises collided.

  They have not been shaken to the core. It's far worse – now their core has gone. Like a split atom: something previously so complete suddenly obliterated; propelling components so far flung that they are surely destined to remain beyond reach. The destruction unfathomable.

  No one phones anyone that night. This is not denial but a heart-rending clutch at survival in a world they Don't understand. The only way to cope with a world you Don't understand is to do something completely different. Reinvent yourself anew.

  Dovidels

  There were some crude similarities with a hangover in that, the next morning, Cat awoke feeling wretched, with details of the previous day swarming over her in bilious waves. Like a hangover, the easiest way to react initially was to pull the duvet over her head and beg for a dreamless sleep to numb the pain and drive the memories away. Unlike a hangover, there was nothing that could combat her fuggy head and untold nausea when she finally awoke at noon. No hair-of-the-dog equivalent to settle the soul from the shock of meeting your long-absent mother and being told that your father is not dead but standing right in front of you. A mammoth fryup might be a miracle cure for a body depleted by alcohol, but it doesn't work when a mind racing with hideous facts ties a stomach in knots. None of the painkillers in Cat's medicine cabinet would have the slightest effect on the anguish choking her.

  She deleted the voicemail messages on her mobile phone from her sisters without listening to them and she left the envelope icons of their text messages unopened. She sensed their contact was one of love and support but just then she felt too raw and bewildered to receive it at all. She phoned Ben though she had nothing to say and clung to the receiver, eyes closed to direct the sound of his voice straight to her heart.

  You're all I have, she said to herself when she hung up, You're all I really have. When the phone rang again, she didn't answer it. If it was Ben, She'd only break down. If it was anyone else, she didn't want to speak to them anyway.

  There was a loaded pause, followed by an uncertain ‘Hullo?’ It was Django, famously suspicious of answering machines, leaving a message for Cat nonetheless. ‘Hullo? Is that Ben? Oh, It's the whatsit. Is there anyone—Hullo? Hullo. This is Django McCabe. I'm leaving a message for Catriona. This is Django. Just leaving a message to say—Blast these blessed machines. I'd like to leave a message to say I hope your journey was OK yesterday. That was Sunday. And I'm. Thinking.’ He phoned again almost immediately afterwards just to say, ‘Monday. It's now Monday.’ For the first time, Django's trademark flummoxed messages brought no smile to Cat. She deleted the messages immediately and switched the answering machine off.

  I'm Cat McCabe. I'm thirty-two years old. I never wanted to meet my mother. I thought I was brought up by my uncle. I thought I had two sisters, that I was one amongst equals, in the same boat, cut from the same cloth, sharing the same blood tie. This is the opposite of finding out You're adopted. There's no one out there for me to find and I can't bear the sight of those staring me in the face.

  Roof upon roof upon roof. Obnoxious pigeons the colour of concrete. Where was a mountain when a girl needed one most? Flagstaff. The Flatirons. Bear Peak. Where was the exhilaration of feeling so tiny in the great wide open, the comfort of feeling so alive surrounded by vast natural wilderness? It was time zones away. A whole day on a plane away.

  In Boulder, there'd still be snow on the peaks but the pastures would be so lush they'd be positively luminescent. Nowhere had Cat seen colours in nature clash so cacophonously and yet so pleasingly as in Colorado. Nature's daytime fireworks. She looked out of the window. Rust-red roof tiles smudged with lichen here, dull grey mass-produced slate tiles there, ugly dormer windows, redundant chimney-pots, bird shit, the spike and clutter of too many aerials. She looked at her watch. Stacey would be awake. And even if she wasn't, she wouldn't mind Cat phoning her.

  ‘Did I wake you?’

  ‘No – I'm just back in from a run. Seven-miler – the killer loop. I wiped the ass off your best time, lady. How are you!’

  ‘Miserable,’ Cat said. ‘Where are you? In your kitchen? By your fridge? Will you look out of the window and tell me what you see? Tell me everything.’

  Stacey's description was soothingly detailed and Cat listened with her eyes fixed on the roof network outside.

  ‘I hate it here, Stacey. I want to come back.’

  ‘You serious?’ The surprise in Stacey's voice was edged with excitement and it heartened Cat.

  ‘Yes,’ said Cat, ‘desperately. For good.’

  ‘You OK, hon? Ben OK?’

  ‘He's fine,’ Cat said.

  ‘And you?’ Stacey repeated, a soft insistence to her voice, a perceptiveness that Cat was so grateful to hear.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘I'm not doing so good. Life's gone pear-shaped. In fact, there's no shape at all. It feels like my world has imploded. Can you talk?’

  ‘Sure,’ Stacey said. ‘What's happened?’

  ‘I want to run away and start afresh,’ said Cat.

  ‘What's happened?’ Stacey repeated.

  ‘you'll never believe who I met yesterday,’ Cat said and out the story tumbled.

  Ben came home to find Cat curled up on the sofa in his towelling robe looking as though she had flu. He put his hand against her forehead and then stroked her cheek.

  ‘How are you, babe?’ he asked. ‘Did you have much of a day?’

  ‘I spoke to Stacey,’ Cat told him, ‘for over an hour. Sorry – I know It's long-distance.’

  ‘Don't be daft,’ said Ben. ‘It was probably a good thing to do. Have you – Fen? Pip?’

  Cat shook her head and scrunched her eyes. ‘can't do that just yet,’ she said.

  ‘Did you tell Stacey everything?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Cat, ‘and that I wanted to go back to Boulder
for ever.’

  ‘Would you like that?’ Ben asked thinking the timing was lousy but he loved his wife and would move mountains for her, or move back to the mountains with her.

  Cat gave a forlorn smile. ‘The thing I love most about Stacey is that She's so good at the caring sympathy but She's also brilliant at common sense. She has Fen's and Pip's qualities perfectly combined.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She said going back now would be running away. She said if I Don't face facts head-on, They'll hunt me down and haunt me.’

  ‘And how do you feel?’

  ‘I Don't care if I'd be running away,’ Cat said thoughtfully, ‘but I trust Stacey and I know what she says makes sense.’

  Ben put his arms around her. ‘Bloody hell, babe, what a total palaver.’ Cat snuggled into the crook of his arm. ‘For the first time, I actually give thanks for the dullness of my own family,’ he told her.

  ‘For the first time in my life, I wish my family weren't who they are. For the first time ever, I curse all those eccentricities and unconventional quirkinesses that I used to feel so proud of.’

  ‘You have me,’ Ben said, tufting life into the flatness of her hair, ‘and for me, You're just what this doctor ordered.’

  Ben could not reach Cat on her mobile phone the next day and it unnerved him. He had considered going in late but there was a departmental meeting he could not miss. She'd assured him she felt fine, that She'd slept well, that she felt much better than she had the previous day. He'd studied her face carefully. Pale but not drawn; her eyes dull but not so desperate now; She'd washed her hair and styled it.

  ‘I'll be fine,’ she told him. ‘I'm going to fanny around the flat for a bit, do some ironing then go through the jobs in yesterday's Guardian.’

  ‘I'll phone you later,’ he'd told her, with a glance at his watch and a tender kiss.

  And he had been trying to. But her phone was off. Now he wasn't sure what to do. Nip home during his lunch-hour? Not practical, as the afternoon surgery was always a busy one. Phone her sisters? He didn't think She'd thank him for that, at the moment, though he felt they would. He tried both phones again and left messages on each. Over lunch by himself in the canteen, he wondered if Cat had found much demand for sports journalists in the job pages of yesterday's Guardian.