Patrick’s father took a deep breath and smiled at Ellen without quite meeting her eyes. “Well, I want to hear more about the hypnotism business.”

Ellen smiled weakly. They had already talked at length about the “hypnotism business” over dinner.

“I read somewhere that Hitler used hypnosis,” said Simon.

“Most politicians are experts at conversational hypnosis patterns,” began Ellen, automatically. She was asked this question all the time when she did speaking engagements. “Simple things, like repetition—”

“There’s an ad on TV at the moment,” said Patrick, looking down at the table. “I don’t know what it’s for, but it’s got a man in a swimming pool and someone’s old bloody bandage is floating in the water and it gets stuck to his mouth, and he pulls it off and throws it away, with this sort of all-over shudder, like, get it off, get it off.”

“I know the one. It’s for a car,” said Simon.

“What’s an old bandage got to do with cars?” Maureen frowned.

“The point is that every time I see Saskia’s car in the rear-vision mirror, or I get another one of her letters ranting and raving about God knows what, or an e-mail, or a text, or I have to listen to her voice on my answering machine, or she delivers a bunch of f**king flowers—I’m sorry for swearing, Mum, but—roses, to my work, I feel like that guy in the ad, I just want to get it off, get it off.”

“She sent you roses?” said Maureen. “She sent flowers to a man?”

“So that’s why I don’t want to hear that Saskia was a great mother, or that my timing sucked when I broke up with her,” said Patrick. “If I did wrong by her, I have paid the price. I have paid and paid and paid.”

With that, he stood up from the table and left the room.

“Oh, dearie me,” sighed Maureen.

“Welcome to our family, Ellen!” said Simon brightly.

“He started up with Saskia too soon after he lost Colleen,” said Maureen. “That was the problem. Much too soon. He never grieved. Men are terrible grievers. Whenever they feel anything bad they just try and stomp it down.”

“Whereas women talk and talk everything to death,” said George.

“Talking helps!” said Maureen. She turned her attention back to Ellen. “After we lost Colleen, Patrick got this thing in his head that he had to be a good provider for Jack. He was obsessed with it. He threw himself into work. That’s why Saskia ended up doing so much for Jack. Patrick was working all the time.”

“Mum, I think we’ve probably shared enough with Ellen for one night,” said Simon.

“Maybe you’re right,” said Maureen. She stood up and began to stack plates, and without looking at Ellen she said quickly, “Tell me, Ellen, are you a Catholic by any chance?”

Simon snorted.

“I’m not actually,” said Ellen apologetically.

“Oh! Well, that’s—and do you mind me asking what religion you are?” Maureen took her husband’s plate. “Not that it matters, of course, I was just curious.”

“Well, I’m not really anything,” said Ellen. “I wasn’t brought up in any particular religion. My mother is a staunch atheist.”

Maureen looked startled. “A staunch—? You mean, she doesn’t believe in God? Not at all? But you do, of course?”

“Isn’t there some rule about not discussing religion or politics at the dinner table?” said Simon.

“I guess I’m more of a spiritual person than my mother,” said Ellen. “I’m very interested in Buddhism, for example. I like its philosophies—practicing mindfulness, that sort of thing.”

“Oh, yes, I’ve heard that’s all very ‘in’ at the moment,” said Maureen. Ellen could sense that she was losing points.

“Ommmmm,” chanted George. He placed his palms together under his chin and bowed his head. “That’s what you Buddhists do, isn’t it. Ommmmm. Ommmmm.”

“George! She’s not an actual Buddhist,” said Maureen. She gave Ellen a frantic look. “That is, are you, darling?”

Simon rocked with laughter.

“I just find it interesting,” said Ellen meekly.

“Well!” Maureen squared her shoulders, as if to say that one must soldier on whatever life throws at you. She tapped a finger to her mouth. “Do you like babies, Ellen?”

“Mum!” Simon slapped a hand to his head.

Ellen caught the roguish glint in Maureen’s eyes. She knew exactly what she was doing.

“I adore babies,” she said firmly.

“Lovely,” said Maureen. “Me too.” They understood each other perfectly.

“Having one for dessert, are we?” said George.

Maureen rolled her eyes. “We’re having apple crumble with cream and ice cream.”

“Maybe just a very small portion for me,” said Ellen.

“Oh, you’re as thin as a rake,” scolded Maureen. “I’ll get you a nice big plate.”

Later that night, Ellen and Patrick lay in her bed, flat on their backs, both of them sucking on antacid tablets. At Maureen’s insistence, Jack had stayed with her for another night. Patrick had carried him from the couch into her spare bedroom, and he hadn’t woken at all. Then Patrick and Ellen had caught a taxi back to her place because they’d both had too much to drink.

“I’m sorry about tonight,” said Patrick.

“It was fine,” said Ellen. “I think your family is lovely.”

It was true. There was something about the Scott family that made her feel surprisingly comfortable, as if she’d sat at that dining room table and passed around baked potatoes many times before.

“I shouldn’t have let that conversation about Saskia go on like it did,” said Patrick. “I just get resentful when they seem to be on her side.”

“I know,” said Ellen, rolling over to touch his shoulder. It felt rock hard, as though all his muscles were contracted. She kneaded his flesh with her fingers, trying to ease his tension. “I understand.”

“And I should never have yelled at Saskia in front of Jack,” said Patrick. “I just felt this sort of crazy fury when I heard her voice. I thought for a while there that I could just accept her in my life, like a disability. But now I seem to be going in the opposite direction. It’s like I’m reaching the end of my tether. Sometimes I think I could kill her. I understand now how people get to that point. The point of murder. I could kill her.”