Everyone said hello and shook hands, I pulled the duvet and the coats off the sofa, but nobody sat down. I cleared my throat.

'Good day?' I said brightly to Nick across the room.

'Fine,' he said.

'It was lovely weather, wasn't it?'

We stared at each other, appalled.

'Drinks,' cried Brendan. He took the two bottles of wine I'd bought out of the fridge and opened them both, with a flourish. 'Get those crisps, Kerry. It's always nerve-racking, meeting the parents, isn't it?' he said. 'When I first met Marcia and Derek I was petrified.' He gave a happy shout of laughter.

'Were you?' asked my father. 'We certainly didn't notice that.' He turned to Nick. 'Miranda tells me you're in advertising.'

'Yes,' said Nick. 'And you're in packaging.'

'Yes.'

'I once thought about advertising as a career,' said Brendan into the pause. 'But then I worried about having to advertise things I didn't agree with.'

'Well…' began Nick.

'Like one of those multinational petrol companies, for instance,' said Brendan. Nick gave me a sharp glance, obviously suspecting I'd told Brendan about his commission. 'That would be impossible. Mmm? I want to work with people. That's where my real interests lie. Here's your wine.'

'It's a bit like being a lawyer,' said Nick. 'You can't just pick the things that you agree with.'

'You mean that even bad companies deserve good advertising,' said Brendan, taking a sip, no, a large gulp, of wine. 'That's an interesting thought.'

Sitting round the small table, everyone pressed against their neighbour, forks scraping against unmatching plates, the third bottle of wine opened and poured. Nick ate slowly and was quiet, but Brendan wolfed down his helping and asked for more.

'You'll have to teach me how to cook it,' he said to Troy. He turned companionably to Nick, 'Has Mirrie ever cooked for you?'

'Once.'

Brendan grinned. 'Let me guess. Chicken breasts with garlic and olive oil?'

'In fact, I mentioned it to Kerry,' I said.

'Right,' said Nick. He smiled at me affectionately.

And I'd said, when I produced it…

'And when she put it down in front of you, she went like this.' Brendan's voice climbed higher. He raised his eyebrows. 'Da-daaa! Make the most of this, mister.' Even I could hear that it sounded a bit like me.

He laughed. I looked across the table at Nick. He was smiling, a bit. And Kerry. Everybody. I stared down at my plate. I thought that Brendan was being repulsive, but I wondered if – for Nick – Brendan's repulsiveness would rub off on me as well. In which case, should I hope that Nick would be charmed by him?

'You OK?' It was Kerry, next to me, laying her cool hand over my sweaty one. Her smell of soap and perfume in my nostrils.

'Fine.' I took my hand away.

'Mirrie?'

Suddenly they were all looking at me.

'I'm fine,' I repeated.

'We're family,' said Brendan gently. 'Family. It's all right.'

I turned on him. 'I finished it with you,' I heard myself say. 'I was the one who finished it.'

The room was silent, except for the sound of Nick's fork, scraping on the plate.

'What was that about?'

We were walking along the street towards the underground, having made a hurried exit.

'I don't know. It doesn't matter. It was just me being stupid.'

'Is that all?'

'I just felt – oh, I don't know. Stifled.'

'Nobody was being nasty to you. You just flared up.'

'You don't understand, Nick. It's all the things that lie between the lines. Things that aren't spoken, but I know are there.'

'That sounds a bit paranoid to me.'

'Yeah? Well, that's because you're not in my family.'

'Brendan was trying to be kind.'

'Right. That's what he wanted you to think. He wants to get you on his side.'

'Christ, Miranda, you should listen to yourself.'

'Oh, forget it.' I rubbed my eyes. 'I made a fool of myself, I know that. I feel stupid, ridiculous. I don't really want to have a post-mortem over it.'

'Very well.' His voice was cool.

We reached the underground station. A warm and dirty wind blew up from below. I felt I could hardly breathe. I took Nick's hand.

'I'm sorry,' I said. 'Can we let it go now?'

'I can,' he said. 'Can you?'

'Go on, Miranda,' said Kerry. 'It'd be so easy for me to set up; you could be on a plane tomorrow evening! Go on.' She paused, then added almost bossily: 'I think you need a break.'

'I'm fine,' I said snappishly.

'I'm only trying to help you,' she said. 'We're all a bit concerned.' I clenched my fists and told myself to stay calm.

I opened my mouth to say no, but then I thought, why not? Why not escape for a few days? Long nights, deep baths, pavement cafes, room service, new sights, new faces, language a babble of sounds in my ear, sun on the nape of my neck, oysters, carafes of wine… And when I returned from work, no Brendan. When I staggered into the kitchen in the morning, no Brendan sitting at the table with his dressing gown flapping open, chomping vigorously on the last slice of bread. Calling me 'Mirrie'. Whispering things into my ear. It had only been one night and one day and already I felt as if I could barely breathe. Just now I had sent him to the shops to buy some toilet rolls, and for the few minutes he was gone I felt as if a boulder had been lifted off my chest.

'All right,' I said. 'Just two or three days. After all, I might as well make use of having a travel agent for a sister.'

'Good. It's just what you need, and I'm sure you'll feel much better when you come back.'

'I could do with a few days off' I said. This was the way we were going to play it then: Miranda has been overworking.

I was busy calculating to myself. If I left tomorrow evening, or the next day, to be more realistic, and was away for the rest of the week, then when I returned maybe they'd be gone. Kerry said that everything seemed to be going smoothly with their house purchase.

'Where do you fancy going, then? It can't be too far if it's only for a short time.' She stood up and collected her briefcase from behind the sofa. 'Look, I brought these back on the off-chance. We do these mini-breaks and there are always spaces at this time of year – I could get you one for a quarter of the price.' She spilt several brochures on to the table. 'What about Prague? Or Madrid? Or here's one for a few days in Normandy, by the sea. It might be a bit cold at the moment. I'd go further south, if I were you.'

' Italy,' I said, picking up a brochure and opening it.

' Rome?'

'I've been to Rome. I want to go somewhere I've never been before.'

'There's Florence, Venice, Siena or Naples. Four days. Or look, there's a really nice hotel in Sicily, on a cliff overlooking the sea.'

I looked at the glossy pictures. Pink and grey churches, canals with gondolas, hotel rooms with large beds.

'Hang on,' I said. I picked up the phone and dialled.

'Nick, it's Miranda… yes… yes, I feel much better, thanks. Sorry about it all, I don't know what came over me, tired I guess… Listen…'

It rained. It was raining when we arrived at the airport and queued for the water bus that would take us to the city. The sky was steel grey. Rain pounded on to the roads like arrows, sending up shoots of water. Our clothes were drenched after thirty seconds. Rain poured down our necks. Nick's hair was plastered to his skull. It rained all the way on the boat, and our first view of the city was a blur – a ghost city rising from the water. It was a five-minute walk from our stop to the hotel, and we lugged our bags, full of light clothes and no waterproofs, along a narrow canal where all the boats were tethered to the side, covered in tarpaulins.