Six months later

Lucia Marchmont adjusted the car mirror and widened her mouth, opening her lips so she could roll on lip gloss. She'd kept her make-up low-key—light face powder, a dusting of bronzer, brown mascara; the kind of thing designed to make you look as if you weren't wearing make-up.

As a once-upon-a-time air hostess, appearance appropriateness came second nature to Lucia. She knew the look that matched every occasion—hospital visits included. Light make-up, this look especially, was the one she'd also chosen for the funeral one month earlier.

She got out of the car and locked it, taking a second or two to draw deep, fortifying breaths. At least this was a private hospital. Lucia hated hospitals. As a child, her mother spent a lot of time in them. In those days, her mother's condition was put down to exhaustion and other euphemisms. Maybe the words weren't supposed to be a disguise in those days. People genuinely didn't know what was wrong with Lucia's mum, except that she slept a lot and neglected her children.

As she stepped into the reception area Lucia felt the smell of hospitals flood her nostrils, and those holes pinch in response.

Why were such places, their consultants so highly paid, their nurses not rushed off their feet, unable to hide that universal hospital smell? Bleach, white spirit and overcooked vegetables—the aroma swept through the corridors and the rooms. Lucia opened her handbag, rummaging around until the found the bottle of Jo Malone.

Lillian said it was naff, the smell so overwhelming and distinctive that everyone recognised it. Overwhelming was ideal in these circumstances. Olfactory senses deadened, Lucia picked up her pace.

Ward 15.

It didn't take long to get there. Private hospitals weren't busy; why would they be? The nurses at the desk looked more like receptionists. They wore scrubs, but they hadn't stinted on make-up either. The once-upon-a-time head of air hostesses for British Airways tutted silently. The auburn-haired young girl in front of her failed the first rule of make-up: your foundation is never visible.

Lucia told the girl who she was here to visit, her fingers itching to reach over and rub the tidemark on the girl's jawline. Hadn't she heard of foundation sponges?

The girl stood up. "I'll just check. She said she didn't want to see anyone."

Lucia felt her lungs deflate. She didn't want to be here. It looked as if there might be an easy escape. She adjusted the bag on her shoulder, readying herself to move, double quick time, when the nurse returned, saying—she's asleep, we don't want to wake her up.

The nurse didn't do her that favour. "Come on through," she said. "Not long now! She's very tired."

Very tired. That's what people said about her mum years ago.

She followed the nurse down a corridor. The Saudis bought the hospital in the early nineties, so there were signs for the direction to Mecca everywhere.

The nurse stopped, her expression coy. "Don't exhaust her," she said. "She's our best patient."

Mmm-hmm, Lucia could bet on that. The woman comes in, doesn't complain, does everything you tell her to do—the only thing you should watch is that she might slip into the ensuite bathroom/toilet at some point and hang herself.

She pushed the door open and started at the figure on the bed, hooked up to machines and tubing. Had she stumbled onto the geriatric ward by accident. This couldn't be... was it really...? Flowers and cards surrounded the gaunt figure on the bed. Lucia hadn't brought either. The card's sickly Hallmark messages seemed inappropriate. Get well soon and sorry you're ill too blandly offensive.

The eyes flickered open. "Marlowe," the voice croaky and rusty-sounding, the sound of someone who hasn't spoken for a while. "Marlowe." Again.

Lucia pulled up a chair and took the hand in hers, avoiding the canula and the raised skin around it.

"Arlene, it's me, Lucia."

Five weeks ago, Marlowe had been killed in a freak accident. He'd crossed the street just as a van delivering sourdough bread to a chi-chi diner at King's Cross turned the corner and missed the blind spot.

Did karma exist? Perhaps, instead of Marlowe's life flashing before his eyes in the seconds before he did, those of others did. The prep school boy who'd spent years battling off the Johnny Wee-Wee tag. And that other kid, a scholarship child unable to afford the school fees Marlowe's daddy could throw around, Marlowe and his peers made sure he never forgot his humble beginnings.

Marlowe's underlings in the business consultancy office where he was a partner; the Indian guy who put up with subtle racism, the administrative assistant who believed low-level bullying was the norm in that world.

Then, there were the women. Take your knickers down. Open your legs. Open your fucking legs.

The van slammed into him. You think these things are clean. They're not. The bread van hit him, and he spun into the air. He didn't twirl—this wasn't speed—but his body bounced, moving upwards in an arch and settling onto the ground below.

The body hit the ground at an awkward angle, the bend of it breaking his neck and the limbs spreading out impossibly. Blood settled itself, it pooled and flowed. Cars, people and others moved away, parting like the Red Sea. Nothing to see here, officer.

Dead.

Later, they called his nearest and dearest. Coppers turned up the door, a man and a woman, the woman obviously meant to do the tears and sympathy bit.

"Hiya!" she said. The man with her nudged him. His young colleague was new to the job and this was her first death knock. Hiya set the wrong tone, it's upward inflection too cheery and jarring.

Arlene adored Marlowe, her only child. She'd longed for him to settle down but took pride in his bachelor status and the steady stream of young, glossy women who clung to his arm. She stared blankly at the officers in front of her as they delivered the news at first. Then, she howled, no, no, no.

The screech of it! The lack of decorum would have appalled her long-time ago finishing school teachers. Where was the stiff upper lip and the delicate dabbing away of tears with a lace handkerchief?

Lucia and the other members of Arlene's circle rallied around, but what did you say? Arlene's eyes fixated on them, the women who were once her friends and whose children remained alive. How fucking dare they.

Leo called Andrew and Lucia two weeks later. Arlene stock-piled the sleeping tablets the doctor gave her, helped herself to Leo's finest whisky and washed the whole lot down when her husband went to bed. Unable to sleep, the grief all-consuming too, Leo woke some hours later and realised what she'd done.

The private hospital he took her to specialised in celebrity rehab. Stomach pumping was a familiar procedure. Despite its regularity, doctors and nurses hung on to their compassion. The process wasn't gentle or dignified. Liquid exploded from every orifice and the throat suffered for days afterwards. They rubbed her back and muttered, "there, there".

Lucia sat beside Arlene and stroked her cheek gently. "Did I ever tell you what a crush poor Lillian had on Marlowe? I often wish they'd got together, didn't you?"

A risky tack, but it worked. Arlene's face changed, a tiny lifting of the lines and a little brightness in the eyes. "No, you didn't!" her voice weak and croaky, "Wonderful, it would have been wonderful."

Lucia continued. In her version, the teenage Lillian spent all her time talking to her mother about how much she loved Marlowe. Middle-aged mum Lucia advised. Lillian do this, Lillian wear that. To no avail—the fictional advice didn't work. Lillian and Marlowe the couple never came into being.

Later, having promised Arlene she'd return the next day, Lucia thought of her daughter. For some reason she couldn't work out, she hadn't yet told her about Marlowe. Or Arlene. Why was she keeping such big news quiet? Shouldn't her daughter know? They were due to meet up in a few weeks' time. Lillian was bound to notice her parents' subdued manner. If she asked after neighbours, Lucia could hardly say—oh, fine, everyone's well and we're off to the Caribbean with Leo and Arlene in a few weeks' time.

I don't want to tell her.

Where did that come from? Perhaps it was to do with Lillian's general fragility. She was going through a rough patch. Why did Lucia's daughter shy away from relationships? Last year, she'd met someone, and Lucia allowed herself the luxury of looking at mother-of-the-bride outfits, a yet to be experienced pleasure.

But then it...fizzled out. Lucia couldn't work out why. Lillian's reasons didn't convince her. Her daughter lost weight, the glitter and shine left her. The dress Lucia bought in a fit of excitement was returned to the shop.

Then, Lillian came up with some crazy idea where she teamed up with those gay friends of hers and had their baby. Lucia thought it madness. She liked John and Kippy—she was even John's godmother—but a baby should have a mummy and daddy, even if the mummy and daddy weren't married. How confusing for a child to grow up calling two people daddy and living between them all.

As it happened, Kippy vetoed the idea. Another reason for Lillian's fragility, as they still weren't speaking to each other. Kippy blamed Lillian for raising the idea in the first place and driving a wedge between him and John. John's paternal instinct had kicked in. Kippy never had one in the first place.

Too many choices; that was Generation X's trouble. When life only offered you one or two, weren't you happier in the long run? Feminism hadn't done Lucia's daughter any favours either. All very well to own a business and property, but a woman needed a man and for him to be the breadwinner.

Were they too fussy about relationships, her daughter's age group? Didn't they get compromise? Really. The world worked best once you accepted this.

Funny that Marlowe hadn't settled down either. He'd been frightfully good looking, too. That combination of Arlene's Maltese blood and his father's Anglo-Saxon heritage produced a heady mix. Why hadn't some woman pounced on him?

Lucia remembered her youth, the conversations she and the other air hostesses had as they worked out who to target and the tactics to use to find a man. Goodness me, easy as pie to hook a man like Marlowe, surely? If you used the right methods, if you dated him a few times and worked out what he liked, staying the course for long enough...

Long enough. As she held out the key, clicking on the button to open the car Lucia felt a stirring in her stomach.

Oh. Jesus. Christ.

No-one stayed with Marlowe longer than a few months. Arlene's mythology for her son told the story one way. Ah, my fussy boy! Such a lady's man, he's got to fight the women off! Change the story from black to white. Did those women leave Marlowe instead?

She met one of them once—a woman (girl, really) who'd outlasted the usual three-month period. Asked to describe her, Lucia would have said "fluttery". She pulled the woman's face and manner up in her mind again. Nervous? Frightened? Anxious not to upset or offend Marlowe?

Lillian had adored Marlowe. Lucia remembered what her once-upon-a-time daughter was like. The artful, casual questions—is Marlowe coming too? Then, the delight that danced on her face when Lucia said he was.

One summer it all changed. Suddenly, Lillian stopped asking after Marlowe. She made a point of being out of the house when his parents came over. If there was some risk of him appearing too, she vanished.

And she got pregnant.

My little darling. The stirring turned to nausea, and Lucia put her hand on the car to steady herself. Tears leaked out of her. They dripped-dripped on the ground, tarmac swallowing up decades-worth of something she'd never understood.

The sun had dropped, its early setting colouring the skies pinky-orange. Lucia found herself alone in the car park. She drew her hand back and punched the car door. Her hand didn't take the wound lightly. Her knuckles showed red and shiny, the veins of her hands prominent. Tomorrow, the bruising would be ripe and obvious.

"You fucking bastard." Still on her own, she could screech it, shout it out. Justice wouldn't be done to Marlowe, but the shouting-out of information felt right.

"I hope it was painful and you felt every bloody bit of that accident."

Lucia kicked her car, the movement reverberating through her toes and triggering the jolt of pain she felt every time her foot touched something. Old age; it doesn't come alone.

"If you hadn't died, I'd rip you apart. I'd start with your balls, tearing them off. I'd force them into your mouth, I'd..."

Who knew she'd be so biblical? An eye for an eye, balls for her daughter's sex life? Lucia found Lillian's life flashing in front of her, once more. Lillian, the eighteen-year-old, wants to go to university stroke art school straight away. She chooses a college not that far from Surrey. She enjoys her course, starts a cosy interior design firm decorating the homes of her parents' friends, and meets A Nice Man.

And everything is different.

Marlowe. You rotten, rotten fucking bastard.

I must phone her. The nausea passed, and Lucia yanked the car door opened, flinging her handbag in. I will tell her Marlowe's dead. I'll make it...celebratory.

I'll make her tell me what happened all those years ago. She will tell me, she will, she will.

And it will be okay.

THE END