– a terrible thing to want a-
– remember very clearly the first time I saw her. The ayah, I forget her name, came in and put her hand on my neck and said, you have a little sister. We walked hand in hand round the courtyard and into the bedroom and Mother was lying on her side and Father said, ssh, she's sleeping, and he lifted me so I could see into the crib. The baby was awake and involved in some tussle with her coverlet, and her skin had a pale, waterlogged look to it, as if she belonged to some other element. She had eyes dark as coffee beans and she was watching something just past our heads. What do you think, Father said, and I said, she is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, and she was, she was-
– a nightgown in rosy silk and I imagined him saying, you are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. And when he came out of the bathroom and I lay there on the bed, ready in my gown of rose-petal silk, I wasn't nervous. I just wanted it over, so' that we could begin, so that my new life could start and I could leave all that behind me. In the train, I had practised writing my new name, Mrs Duncan Lockhart, Mrs K.E. Lockhart, Mrs DA. Lockhart. I showed him, just for a bit of fun. And he said that he didn't particularly like my name. Kitty, he said, was a name for a pet, a cat perhaps, didn't I think that Kathleen was a more sensible option now that I was-
– a terrible thing, a terrible-
– and so I lay there and it seemed like a dreadfully long time. I couldn't hear anything, no water running, no moving about. Nothing. I had an urge to go up to the bathroom door and press my ear to it, just to be sure he was still in there, and a dreadful thought crossed my mind: what if he had escaped through the window and into the night? But then the door opened and yellow light spread into the bedroom, before he turned it off, and I saw his pyjamaed figure moving through the room, felt the bed sag as he sat down. He cleared his throat. You must be very tired, he said. His back to me. I said, no, not really. I tried to add, darling, but it didn't quite come out. And then a really dreadful thing happened. I found I was thinking about Jamie, about the way his smile lifted his face, the way his hair grew in a peak on his forehead and I turned my head away and I think he saw, because he was lying down by this time. I turned it back and I wanted to say, I wasn't turning away from you, but I couldn't because he leant over and he kissed me on the cheek. He had one hand on my arm and he kissed me on the cheek and he hovered there for a moment and I thought, now, it will happen now, and I was holding my breath and then he said, good night. And I couldn't understand what-
– and I stood there in Mother's room with the letters in my hand and I saw my name on the front and I saw the writing and I saw that they had never been opened so I put my finger under the flap of one and the glue gave easily and I unfolded the sheet and all I saw was, please, please, come soon, and when I saw this I-
– realise I am speaking aloud. Terrible thing, I am saying, to want a child and not be able to have one. A nurse is standing by the table, peering at something on the wall, and she gives me a funny look. She is young. What does she know? What do you know, I say, and-
Iris stands on the threshold of her living room. Alex is slumped in one corner of the sofa, arm outstretched, aiming the remote control. The television startles into life and a man is frowning at them from a studio, pointing at the concentric circles of a storm approaching another part of the country.
She comes to sit next to him, curling her legs underneath her, resting her temple against his shoulder and they look together at the weather map.
Alex scratches his arm, shifts in his seat. 'So I told Fran I'd probably stay'
'Stay?'
'The night.'
'Oh.' Iris is surprised, but struggles to pretend that she isn't. 'OK. If you like.'
'No.' He shakes his head. 'If you like.'
'What?'
'I'll stay the night if you want me to.'
She straightens up. 'Alex, what are you on about? You know you're more than welcome to stay but-'
He interrupts in the calm, reasoned voice that never fails to enrage her. 'Can you not tell when someone is trying to do you a favour? I thought I'd stay the night in case you were worried. You know. About being alone with Esme.'
'Don't be ridiculous,' she scoffs. 'She is perfectly-'
Alex catches her face between both hands and pulls it close to his. She is so taken aback that for a moment she cannot move. Then she starts to writhe crossly in his grip. He doesn't let go. 'Iris, listen to me,' he says, at their new, close range, 'I am offering to stay to help you out. I don't know if you know this but you're supposed to say "yes" and "thank you" in these situations. Would you like me to stay the night?' He forces her head into a nodding movement. 'Good. That's settled, then. Say "Thank you, Alex," please.'
'Thank you, Alex, please.'
'You're very welcome.' He is still holding her face between his palms. They regard each other for a moment. Alex clears his throat. 'I mean on the sofa,' he says quickly.
'What?'
'I'd sleep on the sofa.'
Iris pulls away. She smooths her hair. 'Of course,' she says.
She turns her attention back to the television screen. It is showing images of a half-collapsed building, a river flooding its banks, a flattened car, thrashing trees.
'Do you remember,' Alex says suddenly, 'when it was that we last slept under the same roof?'
She shakes her head, still looking at the storm pictures.
'Eleven years ago. The night before my wedding.'
Iris doesn't move. She focuses on the frayed edge of his sleeve, the spot of what looks like ink there, the way the lock and weft of the fabric is beginning to unravel.
'Except you were on the sofa that night. Not me.'
Iris remembers the low buzz of a defective light in the corridor outside his tiny apartment in Manhattan's Lower East Side, long hours of jet-lagged wakefulness, an iron bar that seemed to run the length of the sofa just beneath the upholstery. She remembers the boom and wail of the city rising up to the open window. And she remembers Alex appearing next to her in the middle of the night. No, she had said, no. Absolutely not. And she had struggled away. Why, he had said, what's the matter? She hadn't seen him for almost nine months-the longest they had ever been apart. Iris had been in Moscow, as part of her degree course, struggling to teach sullen Russian youths the subtleties of the English pluperfect.
You're getting married, Alex, she had shouted, tomorrow. Remember? And he had said, I don't care, I don't want to marry her. Then don't, Iris replied. I have to, he said, it's all arranged. It can be unarranged, she said, if you want. But he had shouted then: why did you go to Russia, why did you go, how could you leave like that? I had to, she shouted back, I had to go, you didn't have to come to New York, you don't have to stay here, you don't have to marry Fran. I do, he said, I do.
Iris uncurls herself, straightens her legs, places her feet on the floor. She says nothing.
'So, what are you going to do about this Lucas person, then?' Alex asks, fiddling with the remote control.
Iris allows there to be a slight pause before she says: 'Luke.'
'Luke, Lucas,' he waves a hand, 'whatever. What are you going to do?'
'About what?'
Alex sighs. 'Don't be obtuse. Just try it. For once. See how it feels.'
'Nothing,' she says, looking fixedly at the television. She doesn't want to talk about this any more than she wants to talk about the night before Alex's wedding, but she is relieved that at least they seem to be back in the present. 'I don't know what you mean. I'm not going to do anything.'
'What – you're just going to continue as this guy's mistress? Jesus, Iris,' Alex flings the remote to the arm of the sofa, 'do you never feel you're selling yourself short?'
She snaps upright, stung. 'I'm not selling myself in any way at all. And I'm not his mistress. What a hideous word. If you think-'