Clive is kneeling in front of the aquarium’s isolation tank, adjusting the settings on the filter, when his sister-in-law returns to the conservatory.
‘Andrew won’t f**k me,’ she says. ‘Because of the cancer.’
Rhiannon’s words bounce between the neurons in Clive’s brain like balls in a pinball machine, refusing to remain still. By the time they settle into sentences, Rhiannon is sitting on the wicker sofa by the yucca, having helped herself to a bottled lager from the fridge. Not for the first time, Clive observes the androgynous lines of her body, which make her seem younger than her forty-five years, the airy quality of her strawberry-blond hair.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, afraid to look now.
‘I want to feel alive again,’ she says. ‘Maybe you can help?’
Clive releases an inchoate ‘oh’. A
