IT’S ME, Charles.’ ‘Keeping rather earlier hours than usual.’ Her voice was unruffled, warm without being positively welcoming. If she was surprised to hear from him after three months, she didn’t show it. ‘I wanted to catch you before you went to school.’ ‘Well, you have. Just. I have to be in the car in three minutes.’ He visualised her yellow Renault 5 parked outside the house, then remembered he was projecting the wrong image. She had moved out of the Muswell Hill home they had shared and now lived in a flat in Highgate. He had not been there often enough to visualise the Renault outside it. ‘Listen, I wondered if we could meet up . . .’ ‘Another reconciliation?’ Her voice was wary. ‘Just to see you. I just want to see you.’ ‘Well . . .’ ‘Couldn’t we meet for dinner tonight? Not at the flat. That Italian place in Hampstead. What do you say?’ ‘Well . . .’ ‘Come on. I’ll behave myself. No romantic red roses. No unwelcome attentions . . .
