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  And then you trace a tenderness of kisses all over my face as the throbs of my body subside. And I love you and I fold my arms around your back and I move against you, letting you pick your rhythm. I love feeling you come. I love hearing the abandon and the desire. Come on, Mr.

  Oh. You're spurting on my stomach.

  God, are you that risk averse, Zac?

  I'm stuck for words and I feel like crying.

  ‘Do you want to talk?’

  I thought you were asleep, Matt. Did I wake you? I tried to be quiet. I tiptoed in to see Cosima and tripped over her plastic turtle but she didn't stir. I'm exhausted. I have a headache. But I can't possibly sleep. There's so much in my mind, running rings around me, too much to fathom. From the dishwasher to Django, from Cat to Cosima; from stupid meanderings to portentous thoughts. If I bury my face in your chest, can I pretend that everything is OK? Because the sound of your heartbeat can block out all the other stuff. I think sometimes – recently – I Don't listen carefully enough to your heart. Are you tired, Matt? Because quite to my surprise, I feel rampant and horny. So actually, Matt, no I Don't want to talk, I just want to fuck. If I imagine myself a porn star, can I forget that Fen is just a frazzled mum with a pile of washing She's forgotten to hang out and a heap of shit on her shoulders?

  On the Phone

  Fen was standing in the middle of her sitting-room, looking from a pile of laundry yet to be ironed, to a heap of toys, to a mound of papers and magazines that She'd half sorted into recycling or keeping sub-piles the day before yesterday. She looked at her watch. 10.30 a.m. Was it really worth tidying the toys at this end of the day? No. Was there any real chance She'd do any ironing during daylight hours? No. Was there any point saving papers to be recycled when the bin-men were due to come tomorrow and She'd already missed the recycling service for this week? No.

  ‘Don't eat the pebble, Cosima – Mummy give you a rice cake instead.’

  Fen looked from rice cake to pebble and thought there probably wasn't much in it, taste-wise. The phone was ringing.

  ‘Hi Fen. It's me – Kate. How are things? How's little Cosima?’

  Fen imagined Kate in her tidy house, her perfect shades of unstained neutral, her toothsome ten-month-old baby happily doing algebra. ‘Oh, great,’ Fen breezed, ‘and you? And Max?’

  ‘we're wonderful. Listen, I was wondering – do you fancy coming to the Chelsea Flower Show tomorrow?’

  She may as well have said Australia. Or the moon. A lovely idea but somewhat implausible. ‘I'd love to,’ said Fen, ‘but how baby-friendly is it?’

  Kate laughed. ‘It Isn't. That's the point. Can you get babysitting? We can make a girls' afternoon of it.’

  Fen thought for a moment. She and Matt didn't have much of a garden, let alone the time or inclination to work the little they did have. But there again, she didn't have much of a social life either so, though her interest in horticulture and her friendship with Kate were both limited, the notion of an away-day from toys, recycling issues and laundry taunts was certainly attractive. Fen was surprised to find that the thought of being apart from Cosima for more than an hour didn't seem so unthinkable. She'd phone Pip; wasn't her sister always offering to babysit after all?

  ‘Fen?’ Kate prompted.

  ‘I'd love to,’ Fen said. ‘I'll phone my sister and let you know this afternoon. We're meeting at Anna's at three, aren't we?’

  ‘Yes. But actually, can you text me as soon as you know? Because if you can't make it, I'd like to offer the ticket to Ruth.’

  ‘Oh. OK. Of course.’ It did then occur to Fen that she herself may not have been Kate's first choice. But she didn't dwell on it. She fancied the invitation at any cost, even if She'd been Kate's last resort. Anyway, she couldn't be – because apparently Ruth was lower down the rungs than she. It made Fen feel rather smug.

  ‘Hullo Pip?’

  ‘Hullo Fen. How's you? I spoke to Cat on her way to work. She sounded a little brighter.’

  ‘Good, That's good.’ Fen paused. ‘Pip – any chance you could have Cosima tomorrow afternoon? It's just that one of the mums in my group has tickets for the Chelsea Flower Show. And She's invited me.’

  ‘Chelsea? Are you now doing a Charlie Dimmock outside, in addition to Sarah Beeny-fying inside?’

  Fen laughed. ‘It just sounded different and fun. And aren't you always telling me I Don't get out much?’

  Pip looked at her Filofax. ‘No problem,’ she told Fen. ‘We have Tom tomorrow but Cosi can do the school run with me. Can you drop her off?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Fen, loving Pip's intimacy with her niece but hating the way she abridged her daughter's name. ‘Thanks, Pip. There's a bunch of daffs in it for you.’

  ‘Daffs,’ Pip said, ‘are out of season. You'd better gen up before you go or They'll make compost out of you.’

  ‘Dovidels, can I help you!’

  Cat had been manning the phone all morning. It was her shift on the information desk at the back of the shop. She was loving her job: the books, the customers, her colleagues. It was more than a distraction, it was a revelation. And she found that to immerse herself in this new world, this lovely space, afforded her hours and hours where she didn't have the time to think about anything else. No one asked her about herself, they just asked her about books. The information desk put her in good view of the entrance and each time a customer came in She'd fling over a smile, hoping to lure them over, promoting herself as a preferable alternative to shelf-browsing. She unpacked the special orders with enthusiasm, lovingly handling the books and taking much pleasure in announcing their arrival to the customers, as if the books were one-offs, written to order. Mrs Cohen, I'm pleased to tell you that your Laurie Graham is here. Mr O'Connor, good news – your Tom Holt has arrived. And when they came in to collect their copies, She'd hand them over in a most midwifely way. Enjoy, She'd tell them, as she embraced the cover, enjoy.

  Jeremy, the manager, was charmed by Cat. He'd never had a writer who wanted to be a bookseller; it was far more usual to be the other way around. He loitered as the phone rang again.

  ‘Dovidels! Can I help you!’ Cat answered.

  The great thing about Cat, thought Jeremy, was that there was never any question mark. Just enthusiasm and energy. She might as well be saying Dovidels! I can help you! and he was in no doubt that, subliminally, this was the way most of their customers heard it. He'd never caught her picking her nails or gazing into the middle distance or clock-watching. During quiet periods, she busied about tidying shelves, checking orders and asking him the secrets of successful bookselling. She was in early, back promptly from her breaks and often stayed late.

  ‘One moment please,’ she was saying to a caller, ‘the computer says we have two copies – but let me do a shelf check.’ She scurried away, soon racing back, triumphant. ‘Sorry to keep you on hold but yes! We do! I have a copy right here. I'll put it on one side for you. Pardon? It's my pleasure! No, thank you.’

  ‘Cat,’ Jeremy said, ‘head office are coming in this afternoon – I'm going to recommend you for assistant manager.’

  Cat blushed and gawped but the phone was ringing and it was her duty to answer it.

  ‘Dovidels! Can I help you!’

  ‘You might as well be trilling hi-de-hi,’ Ben's voice told her. ‘I'm just between patients – thought I'd give you a bell. Your mobile is off, as per usual.’

  ‘I can't talk now, Ben,’ Cat scolded him. ‘we're very busy. The phone hasn't stopped ringing and head office are coming in this afternoon.’

  ‘I just wanted to ask—’

  ‘I'll call you later, Ben,’ Cat said sternly, hanging up with an irritated sigh she ensured Jeremy could hear, lest he felt she condoned or, worse, encouraged personal calls.

  ‘Dovidels! Can I help you!’

  When Ben's mobile phone rang a minute or two later, he assumed it was Cat returning his call from the sanctuary of a storeroom or somewhere.

  ‘Babe, I'm just about to
see a patient,’ he said. ‘I'll call you at lunch-time.’

  ‘Actually It's not Babe,’ said the voice, ‘It's Django. McCabe.’

  For a suspended moment, Ben found himself wondering why Django had emphasized ‘McCabe’. He really did know just the one Django. And it would only make sense to stress McCabe if the man was now going to refer to himself as Derek. Which, obviously, he wasn't. Ben's receptionist was buzzing through the arrival of a patient.

  ‘Django – good to hear from you,’ Ben said, ‘but I'm just about to see a patient – can I call you afterwards?’

  When it came to returning the call, Ben wondered whether to phone Cat first. But no doubt She'd give him short shrift for not being a bona fide Dovidels caller. He dialled Derbyshire. The phone rang unanswered. Ben dialled again, intrigued but slightly uncomfortable. Regardless of his affection for the old man, his allegiance was to Cat and she might well disapprove of this exchange. He'd just see what Django wanted. No harm in that. Keep the call short. He could always press the buzzer himself and invent a patient if the call was lengthy or the subject contentious.

  ‘Django? Hullo – It's Ben. Sorry about before.’

  ‘Hullo Ben, thank you for calling back. I'm no good with these telephone things. I always seem to use them at an inconvenient time. That's why I Don't trust the blighters.’

  Ben smiled at Django's characteristically convoluted theory. ‘Don't worry. It was just a slightly neurotic dancer anyway. Now, What's up?’

  ‘I,’ the line went very quiet. ‘Well.’ Django cleared his throat. ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘I'm still here,’ said Ben continuing to hope that whatever it was that irked Django wasn't going to take too long to reveal, and would not compromise his loyalty to his wife.

  ‘Well, I'm telephoning you at work because I appreciate it Isn't appropriate to telephone you at your home,’ Django said, ‘on account of Cat's needs. I fear my tones would not be dulcet but despicable to her ears – you needn't comment. But actually, the main reason I'm telephoning you at work, is because this call is in fact a work call.’

  ‘I see,’ said Ben, who didn't, and whose stomach was telling him it was past lunch-time. ‘Django?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘A work call, you say? Hullo?’

  ‘It's my waterworks,’ Django said, his anxiety transmitting straight through the receiver. ‘And. Well. It's just.’

  ‘Django,’ Ben said, with bedside manner expertly employed in an instant, ‘has there been a change in the situation?’

  ‘Oh, just a very minor one,’ said Django.

  ‘And that would be?’

  ‘Well, just a little bit of, you know, something a little like blood.’

  ‘There is blood in your urine?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Discomfort?’

  ‘No. Not really. Though I'm rather irked by having to spend so many bloody pennies. Especially at night.’

  ‘When did you first see the blood?’

  ‘A couple of visits ago.’

  ‘And since? Is it still present?’

  ‘A little. I suppose. But you know I am partial to beet-root – and that certainly discolours one's water. Almost gave me a heart attack, when that first happened. Far more alarming than the effect of asparagus.’

  ‘Have you eaten beetroot, Django? In the last thirty-six hours?’ Ben asked.

  ‘No. No. But I am fond of it and have eaten a lot of it in my time.’

  ‘Django, did you see your GP about your waterworks? After we had our chat?’

  ‘Well. I did go to my GP. But It's all changed. Dr Sutton Isn't there any more. In his place, just some lovely young doctor but she really is too young to be dealing with me, you know.’

  ‘Django, I really do want you to go and see a doctor. It's probably nothing. But at your age, we need to check your prostate. It's very easy to do.’

  ‘Is it? I see. But I Don't think this very young lady doctor should be bothered by me because as you say It's probably nothing.’

  ‘Is there another doctor at the practice you might prefer to see?’

  ‘I don't know. It's all changed so much. In Dr Sutton's day, you knew them and they knew you. Now they Don't even tick you off – you have to tap in your name on a computer screen yourself. You know how I hate newfangled technology.’

  ‘Will you phone them?’ Ben pressed. ‘Request a male doctor, if you prefer?’

  ‘I could do that, I suppose.’

  ‘You do that, Django, you do that. It's a very simple thing to test PSA. It's just a quick blood test to measure levels of a particular antigen associated with prostate conditions. Plus, an examination.’

  ‘An examination?’ Django said vaguely. ‘I Don't know very much about my prostate, I'm afraid. Or prostates in general.’

  ‘No, Django,’ said Ben, ‘not that sort of exam.’

  ‘No. I didn't think so.’

  ‘It's just a very quick digital exam.’

  ‘Oh a digital exam. Well. Isn't that marvellous. All this technology. Computers to sign you in and computers to diagnose your prostate. Marvellous. They say we're living in the digital age, Don't they!’

  ‘Django, I'm sorry – I've misled you. Digital – as in finger.’ Ben closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘It's the best way to check your prostate gland.’

  ‘Oh. Oh dear. A finger.’ There was a horrified pause. ‘The doctor's?’

  ‘The doctor's,’ Ben confirmed. ‘The doctor will need to insert a finger into your back passage to assess your prostate gland.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Django, I know it sounds ghastly but It's fast, gentle and diagnostically efficient alongside the blood test. I really do want you to see a GP. Prostate conditions are common but some can be quite nasty if They're left too long. I think we'd like to rule out anything more untoward.’

  ‘You know, I'm just thinking here – but actually, I may have had beetroot.’

  ‘Django – would you like me to phone your practice? Make you an appointment?’

  ‘No thank you.’

  ‘But you will phone them directly?’

  ‘Well, yes I will. If That's what you say, doctor.’

  ‘It is. I'm sure It's probably nothing – it might just be a minor kidney infection. But combined with your increased bladder activity, I would really like you to have a prostate check-up.’

  ‘Yes, I see.’

  ‘So will you phone me when you have an appointment?’

  ‘Well, OK then.’

  ‘OK then. Good. And if there's anything that worries you or you Don't understand in the consultation, will you please call me? Take notes – doctors Don't mind.’

  ‘Righty-ho.’

  ‘OK. OK. Good. I'm glad we're agreed. But Don't you worry – as I say, It's easy to diagnose and sort out.’

  ‘OK, Dr York. Thank you.’

  ‘I'm glad you phoned me, Django.’

  ‘Yes.’ There was a pause. ‘Ben?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘And how is Cat?’

  ‘How is Cat,’ Ben had to think fast how to answer. ‘She's up and down, Django. But She's working at a bookshop and She's enjoying that.’

  ‘A bookshop you say?’

  ‘Yes, She's really taken to it. Very busy and enthusiastic.’

  ‘Good for her. Good for her. Is she also – well – OK?’

  ‘She'll be OK, Django,’ Ben said carefully. ‘She's still very confused. We'll just bide with her, I think. You know how emotional she can be.’

  ‘Yes. Yes I do. And the others? Might you know?’

  ‘They're OK too, as far as I'm aware.’

  ‘Good. Good.’

  ‘It's all been a little – odd.’

  ‘More than a little odd, dear Ben. On paper, It's downright preposterous.’

  ‘Well, you know those McCabe girls – they need to vent their emotions before they can settle down and consider hard facts.’

  ‘Yes. But th
e facts are very hard, Ben, for them. Very hard.’

  ‘I know. But rest assured we're looking after them. Zac and Matt and me.’

  ‘Bless you all,’ said Django, ‘bless you all.’

  ‘Django – will you call your surgery now?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘And We'll speak later today?’

  ‘We shall. Goodbye.’

  Ben sat and stared at his mobile phone. Ought he to phone Cat? But would it alarm her? Perhaps he should phone Pip and ask her the best tack to take. But Pip would no doubt be struggling with her own reactions. He wondered what would alarm Cat most – that he was phoning her, again, at work? That he'd had the call from Django? Or that there was some concern for the man's health? Ben decided it might be prudent to wait until Cat had left work and he'd next spoken to Django.

  Cosima and her pals were alternately gnawing on wooden spoons and bashing them, or their fat little hands, against a variety of Tupperware containers provided by Anna.

  ‘We could call them the Rhythm Method,’ Fen remarked, clicking her fingers as if the babies were jamming a catchy beat.

  ‘Hardly,’ Kate commented. ‘It's a contradiction in terms. If us lot had kept up the tempo of our Rhythm Method, this little lot wouldn't be sucking our kitchen utensils.’

  Momentarily, Fen thought this was slightly harsh. But then she told herself it was just Kate's manner. She was to let nothing detract from her excitement for tomorrow afternoon's excursion.

  ‘We heard from Highgate School,’ Ruth was saying. ‘Josh is in in in!’

  ‘Good for Josh, it'll suit him. We turned down Highgate, because Jacob's more of a UCS boy, we feel,’ said Anna.

  ‘Fen, have you put Cosima down for Channing?’

  ‘Um. No. No,’ Fen said.

  ‘God – you must.’

  ‘Oh?’ Fen felt all the other women nodding at her.