By the time Frances left the office and made it to Sainsbury's, she had a thumping headache, a knot in her stomach, and a ridiculous urge to burst into tears.

Dad had looked so lost in the hospital bed. And he'd gripped her hand when she had to leave.

Why did Justin have to be in Suffolk with his parents? And why, why had she slammed down the phone on Meg?

Mechanically, she took a basket and threaded her way through the Friday-night shoppers.

'What d'you mean his mother doesn't know?' her best friend had spluttered down the line. 'She doesn't know you exist? Bloody hell. I can't believe you never told me.'

'It's not important,' Frances had muttered.

'Not important? Frances, you've only been living with him for nearly a year. What's he playing at?'

'It's complicated. He doesn't want to upset her.'

'Why would it upset her to learn that her only son - her thirty-eight-year-old son - has a gorgeous, loving, successful girlfriend like you?'

'Because he isn't the only son. Well, he is now, but he wasn't to begin with. There was a brother. He died when Justin was six. She's never got over it. You wouldn't, would you? That's why she's a bit clingy.'

'Clingy? You mean, she's found the perfect way of keeping him to herself.'

Frances did not reply. That was exactly what she'd told Justin the night before.

'I can't believe,' Meg said relentlessly, 'that you're putting up with this. You're not a doormat, you're a solicitor. Grown QCs tremble at your every word. And come to that, I never pegged Justin for a Mummy's boy.'

That was so absurd it made Frances laugh. It was his masculinity that had attracted her in the first place. Sitting in court listening to that glorious, deep voice winning over the judge. The thick, corded veins on the backs of his hands.

She felt herself growing hot, and wrenched open the ice-cream cabinet for a blast of frosty air.

Come on, concentrate. Sorbet for Justin, or Ben & Jerry's for you? And yes, it's ridiculous having to choose, but you're the one who's never got around to buying a proper freezer.

Suddenly, she wondered why. Why hadn't she - or Justin - done anything to the flat? Were they merely playing at being together?

Meg hadn't missed that one, either. 'Has it occurred to you that he hasn't told his mother because he doesn't want to commit?'

'Bollocks. He's just trying to protect me.'

'Tell me you don't believe that.'

'What, you think he's making the whole thing up?'

'Well if he can lie to her, he can lie to you.'

'Justin doesn't lie. Look, he works incredibly hard, we both do. We hardly see each other. The last thing we want is family hassle.'

'That's an excuse.'

'No it's not. His family doesn't matter. What matters is us.'

'And he makes you feel like that, does he? He makes you feel as if you matter?'

That was when Frances told Meg to get lost, and slammed down the phone.

She realized that she was still scowling at the ice-cream cabinet, its door wide open. A skinny woman with a trolley threw her a look, and muttered about wasting fossil fuels. Frances ignored her, and took out the sorbet. Justin would need cheering up when he got back.

He makes you feel like that, does he? He makes you feel as if you matter?

Bloody Meg.

No. Kind, generous, level-headed Meg, who'd refused to be crushed by a horrible divorce.

She took out her mobile, and got Meg's answering service. 'Meggie it's me. I'm really sorry. Things are screwed up right now. I'm worried about Dad, and Justin isn't -. Well. Sorry.'

When she rang off, she felt worse. And so alone.

'Bugger,' she muttered, and earned a disapproving stare from a passing old lady.

Disconcerted, Frances moved on up the aisle. Then something made her turn and look back.

Slender, seventy-something, and immaculately turned out, the old lady looked as if she'd just stepped from an Awayday advert. Nimbly, she took a jar of balsamic mustard from the top shelf, examined it, and put it back. 'Anthony,' she called, without turning her head.

A goodlooking man in his fifties rounded the corner.

The son, thought Frances with an odd little twist of apprehension.

The mother gave him a rueful smile. 'A jar of that special mustard? I can't quite reach.'

Frances gripped her basket. Don't, she told him silently. Let the manipulative old cow get it herself.

The son had a clever and confident face, and good hands, with strong veins across the backs. Frances watched in dismay as he took down the jar.

The mother glanced round, caught Frances watching, and gave her a cold stare.

Frances turned and walked away. She felt sick.

In Suffolk that evening, while Justin was on the terrace with his parents, he took out his mobile 'to check on work'.

Oh good, a text message from Frances.

As he read it, his smile faded. Dad just died. Come home. Please. F.

'A problem at chambers?' said his mother.

'- sort of,' he muttered. 'A - a colleague. I'll have to step into the breach.'

'But not yet,' she said quickly. 'Nothing could be that important.'

He licked his lips. Tomorrow it would be thirty-two years since Robbie died. 'Of course not,' he heard himself say. 'I'll just make a quick call.'

He was relieved to get Frances' answering-service - which made him feel bad. 'It's me,' he said. 'I'm so terribly sorry about James. The thing is,' he shut his eyes and winced, 'I can't come back till Sunday - what with the anniversary. Anyway. I'll - I'll see you then. Back before noon. Without fail.'

On Sunday just after one, Frances stood in the kitchen, contemplating a mug of coffee. Two sleepless nights had left her exhausted, hollow, and fragile with loss.

In the street, a taxi chugged to a halt. She heard Justin taking the steps two at a time. Then he was in the hall: big, solid and capable. 'I came as soon as I could.'

Shakily, she put down the mug and went to meet him. 'I know,' she said. She was amazed at how calm she sounded.

She stood on tip-toe to kiss his mouth. Then she picked up her bags and walked out onto the landing. 'Goodbye, Justin. I'm going to see Dad.'

He looked puzzled.

'He got better,' she said.

© Michelle Paver 2001