“At least ring him.”

“Why?

“Persuade him to take his medicine. Cheer him up. Hell, I don’t know. Don’t you have any interest in helping him sort himself out?”

“No. I’ve done that. It’s not a joke, Robert. He’s hopeless.”

Robert stared out the windows at Vautravers’ chaotic front garden, which sloped up away from the house so that it was like watching an empty raked stage. As Marijke declared her complete lack of interest in Martin’s future, the twins opened the front door of Vautravers and walked up the footpath to the gate. They were dressed in matching baby-blue coats and hats and carried lavender muffs. One twin was swinging her muff on its wrist-strap; the other twin pointed at something in a tree, and both girls burst out laughing.

“Robert? Are you there?”

One twin walked slightly in front of the other; to Robert they appeared to be two-headed, four-legged, two-armed. They let themselves out of the gate. Robert closed his eyes, and an afterimage formed on the backs of his eyelids, a silhouette-girl shimmering against darkness. He was enchanted. They were like an early Elspeth, a previous version that had been withheld from him until now. They’re so young. And so strange. My God, they look like they’re about twelve.

“Robert?” His eyes flew open; the twins had gone.

“Sorry, Marijke. What were you saying?”

“I have to go. I’m on deadline.”

“Er-right, then. Sorry to have bothered you.”

“Robert, is something wrong?”

He thought about it for a moment before he answered. “I just saw something rather marvellous.”

“Oh,” said Marijke. “What was it? Where are you?” For the first time she sounded interested in the conversation.

“Elspeth’s twins have arrived. They just walked through the front garden. They’re a bit-surprising.”

“I didn’t know Elspeth had children.”

“They belong to Edie and Jack.”

“The famous Edie.” Marijke sighed. “I never quite believed in Edie; I always suspected Elspeth might have invented her.”

Robert smiled. “I was never sure about Jack, myself. The legendary fiancé who eloped with the demon twin to America. It seems they were real after all.”

Marijke covered the phone with her hand. When she spoke again it was to say, “I really do have to go, Robert.” She paused. “Do they look like Elspeth?”

“If you come home you can see for yourself.”

She laughed. “I’ll call him, but I’m not coming to London. It never quite was my home, you know, Robert.” Marijke had lived in London for twenty-six years. For twenty-five years she had lived with Martin. Robert couldn’t imagine how she had done it. He pictured her with other Dutch people, tall sturdy people who spoke five languages and ate herring they bought from little carts on the streets. In London Marijke had always seemed worried and deprived. Robert wondered if her return to her own city had restored what she had craved.

“He’s waiting for you, Marijke.” Silence, static over the phone. Robert relented. “They do look rather like Elspeth. They’re more blonde, though. They aren’t as fierce as Elspeth, either, I don’t think. They look like kittens.”

“Kittens? How incongruous. Well, kittens will be good for the place. You gloomy men could use some kittens. I must go, Robert. But thanks for calling.”

“Bye, then, Marijke.”

“Bye.”

Marijke stood in her cubicle with her hand on the receiver. It was a little after three o’clock, and she could spare a few minutes, despite what she’d said to Robert. She should do it now. Martin had caller ID, so she would only call him on her mobile. She felt a pang of guilt. When she’d left, a year ago, she had called every few weeks. Now she had allowed two months to go by without calling. She held the phone to her ear, counting the rings. Martin always answered on the seventh ring; yes, here he was.

“Hello?” He sounded interrupted; she wondered what he had been doing when the phone rang, but she knew better than to ask.

“Hallo, Martin.”

“Marijke…” She stood with the phone pressed hard against her ear. She had always loved to hear him say her name. Now it made her sad. Marijke leaned over with the mobile still pressed against her ear and then crouched down next to her desk, so that when she looked up she saw only the walls of her cubicle and the acoustical tiles of the ceiling. “Marijke, how are you?” He did not sound any different than the last time she’d spoken to him.

“I’m fine. I got promoted. I have an assistant now.”

“Stellar, that’s excellent.” There was a pause. “Male or female?”

She laughed. “Female. Her name is Ans.”

“Hmm, okay, well, that’s great. I don’t want you being swept off your feet by some young Adonis with”-here Martin lowered his voice-“fab-u-lous e-nun-cia-tion.”

“Don’t worry, you, there’s nobody here but us radio geeks. The young ones are too busy chatting each other up to be bothered with the likes of me.” Marijke felt oddly pleased that Martin imagined she was beset by suitors. She could hear him lighting a cigarette, and then the soft exhalation of smoke.

“I quit smoking,” she told him.

“Surely not. What will you do with your hands? Your poor hands will go crazy without a ciggy to occupy them.” Martin’s tone was caressing, but Marijke could hear the effort to be casual. “When did you give up?”

“Six days, twelve hours, and”-she looked at her watch-“thirteen minutes ago.”

“Well, marvellous. I’m jealous.” At the word jealous there was a mutual pause.

Marijke combed her brain for a new topic. “What are you working on? The Assyrians?” Martin occasionally worked for the British Museum, and the last time they’d talked he had mentioned some Aramaic inscriptions that he was translating.

“Mmm, I finished those. They’ve got me onto a little trove of poems, an Augustan lady named Marcella is supposed to have written them. If they were real they would be rather exciting; there are hardly any surviving works by women from that period. But they aren’t quite right. I think that Charles has been hoodwinked, alas.”

“How do you know they are not right? Surely Charles had them vetted?”

“As objects, they seem fine. But the language is wrong in all sorts of small ways. It’s sort of how it would be if you decided to forge some new Shakespearean sonnets; even though your modern English is lovely and charming, you would make odd little mistakes with the archaic turns of phrase, the grace notes that would have come naturally to a writer of that time. I think the writer is a twentieth-century Frenchman with an excellent command of nineteenth-century Latin.”

“But aren’t they copies of copies? Perhaps the mistakes were introduced…”

“Ah, well, they were found at the library at Herculaneum, you see, so they were supposed to be the genuine article. I must call Charles today. He’ll be hopping-”

Marijke’s boss appeared in the entrance of her cubicle, looked around confusedly and discovered her sitting on the floor. Marijke looked up at Bernard from her crouch and mouthed, Martin. Bernard rolled his eyes and continued to loom over her, his sparse grey hairs standing up as though he were a cartoon character who had been electrocuted. He pointed to his watch. She stood up and said, “I’ve got to go, Martin. I’m on deadline.”

Martin experienced a jolt-talking to Marijke was so comforting, so normal and right, that he had almost forgotten; it had been so much like the conversations they used to have every day, he had forgotten that it would soon be over. And when would she call again? He panicked.

“Marijke-”

She waited. She wished Bernard would stop looking at her. She made a little rotating motion with her free hand. Yes, I know. I’ll be off in a moment. Bernard wiggled his enormous eyebrows at her warningly and went back into his office.