What became of us

parties as you do,’ he said.
    ‘No, well, not surprising in the circumstances,’ she said, then, thinking that might sound rude, she added, ‘I meant with having children and everything.’
    ‘You ever thought of having any?’
    ‘What?’
    She didn’t know whether he meant dinner parties or children.
    ‘Children. Have you ever wanted children?’
    ‘How do you know I haven’t got any?’
    It was the first time she had seen him looking surprised.
    ‘I suppose from your show, and — how can I put it tactfully? — most women your age who have had children...’ He stared appreciatively at her chest.
    ‘That is an outrageously sexist thing to say,’ she protested, but she felt a little secret thrill nevertheless. It was a bit like the time two years before when she came third in a viewer poll of best legs in television. It wasn’t the same as winning a BAFTA (she imagined, because she had never won one), but it was pretty damn close. She knew that it wasn’t politically correct to like people admiring her for her legs (Ursula had been appalled), but Annie wasn’t offended enough to refuse to go on a daytime television programme to pick the winning entry form out of a giant stiletto shoe and announce the name of the lucky viewer who had won a year’s supply of Sheer and Silky 15 denier tights. Unfortunately her random choice had been a man, but the producer loved that even more.

    ‘You shouldn’t assume anything,’ Annie said, hoping that in the neon her red nose would equalize the blush she was trying to suppress, ‘but as it happens I haven’t got children.’
    ‘Do you want some?’
    That was a bit intrusive.
    ‘Mind your own business,’ she snapped, then, thinking that made her sound like a typical thirty-something with a biological clock, she added, ‘Actually, I don’t think I do.’
    ‘Are you an only child?’
    She began to feel slightly irritated by his probing. Just because they were sitting on a motorway verge together at, she looked at her watch, half-past two in the morning, didn’t mean he had a right to her life story, did it?
    ‘Yeah,’ she said. Then she couldn’t resist the urge to elaborate.
    ‘In a way, I’m glad, because I couldn’t bear the idea of competing for my mum’s affection, but it also means I have to look after her,’ she said. ‘She’s going a bit barmy even though she’s quite young, and... oh well, you don’t want to hear all this. Mothers with Alzheimer’s are probably worse than fungal toes as far as you’re concerned.’
    ‘Not at all,’ he said, and his saucy grin changed instantly to a look of real concern. She could see he would be a lovely doctor.
    ‘I’m thinking of having her move in with me,’ she said for the second time that day. Say it a third time, she thought, and it might as well have happened.
    ‘Why?’
    ‘She’s getting so forgetful, I keep expecting the call that says she can’t find her way home.’
    ‘But you wouldn’t be able to look after her yourself, would you?’
    ‘I’d probably hire a nurse.’
    She didn’t really want to venture any further into the practicalities.
    ‘Can I say one thing?’ he asked.
    ‘Yes,’ she said, eager for any professional advice.
    ‘Don’t do it out of any misplaced feeling of duty. It can be pretty miserable for the carer, you know, and I’m not sure how much difference it makes to the sufferer. Alzheimer’s patients need round the clock attention. It can be a thankless task.’
    ‘She’s not incontintent or anything,’ Annie said. ‘No.’
    The equivocation in his voice made it sound like ‘not yet’. Suddenly she was rather frightened.
    ‘She did everything for me,’ she said.
    ‘Of course she did. She’s your mother.’
    ‘I’m her daughter.’
    ‘Not the same. Let me ask you something. Think of your mother in her right mind. Would she have wanted you to give up your life in order to look after her if she lost her mind.’
    ‘Absolutely!’ Annie said with a laugh, but she realized that she was speaking about the interfering mother in her show. The last thing Marjorie would have wanted was to get in Annie’s way.
    Ian looked at the sky.
    ‘If we’re going to get back by dawn, we’d better be off,’ he said.

    Away from the neon, it was still quite dark and the road was quiet. Very few people were mad enough to be out at this time. None on bikes. The night air felt damp in her lungs. Annie wished that she was tucked up asleep in a nice warm