They walked in, smiled, shook her hand, said how do you do; she was pleasantly surprised by that, and by their slightly formal clothes. She had half expected grunting hoods. They were good-looking children, both of them, Amy an incipient beauty, with Alex’s dark colouring, all pushed-back hair and posh, languid voice, Adam blond, overtall and thin and horribly self-conscious, with spots, braces on his teeth, and a voice perilously close to breaking. Amy wandered round the office, looking at photographs, expressing polite interest when she recognised someone; Adam sat on the sofa, trying not to look at anyone as he sipped his Coke.

The taxi ride was silent; they arrived at the preview cinema in Wardour Street half an hour early. Not good. Linda met a couple of people, introduced them, and then withdrew into the safety of showbiz gossip. Amy looked bored, Adam embarrassed, Alex glowering and Heathcliff-like.

The film was a success: very funny, very glossy, quite cool. Linda sat next to Amy, then Adam, then Alex. They both laughed a lot, and afterwards Amy turned to her and said, “That was really cool, thank you so much.” Adam shuffled out, muttering, “Great, cool, yeah.”

“So… pizza, anyone? Or shall we just go to Starbucks or somewhere for a coffee? You guys choose.”

Guys? Should she have said that? More pathetic groping for street cred.

“Pizza?” said Amy.

“Don’t mind,” said Adam.

They went to Pizza Express in the end, the kids talking and giggling between themselves; what were they saying? Linda thought. Were they agreeing that she was gross, or pathetic, or even-just possibly-nice? There was no clue from the subsequent exchanges.

They ordered pizzas, preceded by garlic bread; conversation was strained and mostly about the film and other films they had seen. She longed to ask them what they wanted to do when they grew up, but knew that this above all was what people their age hated. She asked them their plans for the weekend, and they both said they didn’t know.

She asked them if their father had told them much about South Africa, and Amy said yes, and it had sounded really cool. Adam said yes, it had sounded great.

She had ordered one small glass of wine, but it was gone in her nervousness before they had even finished the garlic bread; she ordered another-“a large one this time, please”-and then worried they might put her down as an alcoholic.

A very large silence now settled; she almost let it go on, and then, thinking things could hardly be worse, asked them if they had heard about the music festival that Georgia, one of her clients, was putting on “for the victims of the M4 crash last summer; I’m sure your father will have told you about it.”

“He tells us about so many awful things,” said Amy, smiling suddenly at her father, then at her, “we wouldn’t remember.”

“Oh. Right. Well, Georgia-Georgia Linley she’s called-is going to be in a big new thriller series in March. She was involved in the crash and wanted to raise some money for the people who were hurt, who can’t work and so on. But now it’s more for your dad’s hospital.”

“Cool,” said Amy. “Was that her, the black girl in the photograph with you?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“So… when’s the festival?”

“Oh… July.”

“Where?”

“On someone’s farm. Nice young guy called William Grainger; his farm borders the M4, and the air ambulance landed on his field.”

“Oh, OK.”

“Would you like to go?” asked Alex. It was virtually the first time he’d spoken since they got to the restaurant.

“Yeah, maybe. What’s it called?”

“I don’t think it’s got a name yet,” said Linda. “They can’t seem to get it quite right, the last thing I heard. Got any ideas? All suggestions welcomed.”

“God, no,” said Amy.

Adam shrugged.

Shortly after that they left; Alex was driving them home to their mother. He still hadn’t found anywhere decent to live.

“You’ve been a great help,” hissed Linda, as they stood at the edge of the pavement, hailing taxis for her rather fruitlessly.

“Sorry. I thought it was better to let you make the running.”

“Hmm. Oh, shit, look, there’s one miles down the road, hasn’t seen us…” She put two fingers in her mouth and whistled loudly. Amy and Adam looked startled, then grinned at her. Or were they laughing at her? How loud, how brash, not the sort of thing a nice, seemly stepmother should be doing.

“Bye, then,” she said, holding out her hand, taking theirs one by one. “It’s been really fun. I’m glad you liked the film.”

“Bye,” said Amy. “And thanks.”

“Bye,” said Adam. “Yeah, thanks.”

“Bye, Linda,” said Alex.

The last she saw of them was the two children, heads together, laughing… at her, no doubt, pathetic, would-be-cool woman, and Alex, looking ferocious.

What a disaster. What a bloody disaster. He’d never want to marry her now.

She was half-asleep when the phone rang.

“Hi.” It was Alex.

“Oh, hi. You OK?”

“Yes, thanks. I’m fine.”

“Sorry, Alex.”

“What on earth for? Right… now, as the kids would say, were you a hit, or were you a hit?”

“What?”

“You, my darling beloved, are just soooo cool. That’s Amy’s verdict. You are pretty nice. That’s Adam’s. You have great legs. That was also Adam. You are so not embarrassing. Amy again. She wants to come and see you on her own, maybe-go shopping; your shoes were just uh-may-zing. And ohmigod, the way you whistled for the cab. Oh, Linda. I love you.”

“I love you too,” she said.

It felt like any other evening. Not good, not bad, Barney thought, just… an evening. For going home, eating dinner-dutifully; smiling-a lot; talking-carefully; listening-even more carefully. Trying not to think too much, not to remember… and most of all, not to look forward. Forward into God knew what. More of this? This odd, calm sadness, this pleasant unease, this lie of a life? Lived with someone who loved him so much. Whom he-still-loved too. In a way. In a concerned, tender, guilty way.

It was a horrible night, wet, cold, windy. He was carrying a brown paper bag with a couple of bottles of wine in it, and it was getting dangerously soggy. He’d also got her some flowers. Those Kenyan two-tone roses that she liked so much. It was Wednesday and he always bought her flowers on Wednesday; it was half joke, half tradition. She said if he ever forgot, she’d know there was something terribly wrong. Well, he hadn’t forgotten yet.

When he got home, she wasn’t there. Which wasn’t particularly unusual; she was terminally sociable, always having quick drinks or even supper with girlfriends after work. Although he couldn’t remember her saying anything about this evening.

He went in, put the wine in the fridge, the roses in water-without cutting the stems, which would have induced a ticking off if she’d known; she was very strict about such things: “Barney-darling-it doesn’t take a minute, and they live so much longer; you’re just lazy…”

He wondered if Emma fussed over rose stems. He decided it was very unlikely… Don’t start thinking about Emma, Fraser, just don’t. Doesn’t help.

He wondered if he should do something about supper. He looked in the fridge; there didn’t seem to be a lot there. Well, if she was much later, they could go out. Only if she’d eaten-he’d call her. See what she was doing. She’d be amused, not cross, if he’d forgotten some arrangement, would tell him he was hopeless, that she’d be home soon.

Her mobile was switched off.

He sat down, turned on the TV, was watching the end of the seven-o’clock news when he heard her footsteps in the street, heard her key in the lock. She’d be soaked, miserable; he should make her a cup of tea.