Perfect Day

her. The call was at 19:10. Ten past seven, Nell thinks. She realizes, disappointed, that it was her own call from Frances ’s. So there have been no calls since then. Nell checks her watch. No calls in almost two hours. She can’t decide whether that is good news or bad.
    ‘Can I go to bed without a bath, Mummy?’
    ‘Of course you can, my darling. Go and brush your teeth. I’m just going to look at my e-mail and then I’ll come up.’
    She feels as if she’s acting her role as a mother over the top of the turmoil inside her, going through the routine of bedtime on automatic pilot, but so far, Lucy does not seem to have noticed the difference.
    There’s a brief surge of optimism when she sees that there are three e-mails in her in box. The first two are from the editor of her magazine sent twice by mistake. The third is from Frances . It’s several Ks long and the subject is Sorry, sorry, sorry.
    Nell shuts the computer down without reading any of them.
    ‘What time is Daddy getting home?’ Lucy calls through a mouthful of toothpaste.
    ‘He’s usually late on Fridays.’
    Nell goes upstairs.
    ‘Why?’
    ‘He goes out for a drink with his friends,’ Nell explains.
    ‘Or lots of drinks?’ says Lucy, and spits out into the sink.
    Enough time has passed since Daddy’s day ended for him to consume a whole barrel of beer.
    ‘Bed,’ Nell orders.
    She helps Lucy undress and tucks her into bed, then just as she’s creeping out of the room, Lucy’s little voice says,
    ‘Mummy? I think Lizzy Angel is still in the car.’

    The sky is now a great dome of stars. Something about the myriad twinkles makes Nell feel as if there’s benevolence at work. She picks Lizzy Angel and Fizz Tweeny off the back seat and gives them each a cuddle.
    ‘What do you think, Lizzy Angel?’ she whispers, making the doll’s face look up at the heavens too. ‘Is Alexander OK?’
    She nods Lizzy Angel’s flat knitted head. The cross-stitch eyes seem full of optimism. But she’s never trusted Lizzy Angel.
    Alexander asked quite recently, ‘Why did Lucy call her Lizzy Angel?’
    ‘It’s what your mother used to say. Never just Lucy. Lucy, angel... Alexander, angel... Don’t you remember? Lucy was just beginning to talk. She thought you added “angel” to everything.’
    ‘Do you think she can remember my mother?’
    ‘We’ve talked about her. What she was like. She knows she gave her Lizzy ,’ Nell told him gently, surprised at his eagerness to find a link between the generations. ‘You should read Lucy some of the books.’ But she doesn’t think that he has.
    She has the fleeting thought that the books will be a comfort to Lucy, a way of fleshing out a memory of Alexander. She stamps on it, hating her imagination for being so morbid. No news is good news.
    Nell tucks the doll in next to Lucy. The cross-stitch eyes stare up at her, keeping a waking vigil.
    As she tiptoes out of the room, Lucy turns over. ‘Mummy?’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘I love you in the world.’
    ‘I love you in the world, too.’

    Downstairs, Nell switches the television on. A bespectacled man will win £125,000 if he knows how many miles the Moon is from Earth. With one hand she flips through the listings guide. There’s no news until ten o’clock.
    What now?
    She picks up the phone, hesitates before dialling, then presses out her mother’s number.
    ‘Mummy, we’re home.’
    ‘Alexander too?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Have you heard from him?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘I’m sure he’ll turn up.’
    Well, that’s all right then.
    ‘Mummy, I don’t know what to do!’
    ‘No news is good news.’
    ‘You won’t say that if there’s no news by midnight, or tomorrow, or...’ Nell’s voice peters out.
    ‘Shall I come over, darling?’
    ‘No. No, I don’t think so, thanks.’
    ‘Do you want me to have Lucy?’
    ‘No, she’s asleep now.’
    Her mother has recently adopted an injured hound with three legs whose basket in the kitchen makes Lucy sneeze. Nell doesn’t want to take Lucy there unless it’s absolutely necessary.
    ‘Morse is on, darling.’
    ‘Oh, sorry.’
    Nell puts down the phone. It’s strangely reassuring to know that her mother’s unruffled enough to be watching Morse.
    Nell picks up the address book by the phone, and flicks through it. She’s not really expecting to see Alexander’s handwriting, but under S for School he has scrawled the word Vivienne, and a number, and under that Mel, and a number.
    Nell tries Mel’s