I let his fingers rest on mine, feeling his warm dry hand, his flesh, and I stare at him again in

wonder.

'I wouldn't change that for the world. But I do think about it. I used to, all the time. You see, we never talked about her, none of us, after she died. I had no one to talk to about - about her. None of my friends had met her. It was so brief. I couldn't discuss it with my brother, with Louisa.' He exhales. 'I'm sorry. I find it very hard, even now. Reading the diary, it brought it all back.'

'Did you know about Bowler Hat and - and Granny?' I ask. 'Before you read the diary?'

Guy frowns. Two lines appear between his grey brows. He screws his eyes up. 'I knew in some way,' he says. 'I've never trusted either of them. Don't get me wrong. I loved them both. I always will. But I - I think I didn't want to see what was going on. You have to remember how young we were, how naive, really. She tried it with me, you know.'

'What? Granny?'

Guy nods. 'Frances was a woman of many passions. She let it be known that she was available. Not long after we arrived, that summer. A hand here, a stroke on the cheek there. A look over the shoulder.' He blinks. 'I was so lily-livered. I'd have gone for it like a shot if I hadn't been so scared. Good

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thing I didn't.'

I shake my head. I don't know why I'm surprised. 'Anyway,' Guy continues. 'I suppose, I suppose - yes, seeing your mother, it brought it all back again. But in a good way. She was wonderful. She was like Cecily, of course. But shewasn't like her. They're not that alike. So it was comforting, to see her again, and to be able to talk about what had happened.' He looks awkward. 'Not that she wanted to talk about it much. She was more interested in the present. Not the past. Always has been.'

He shifts in his seat. 'You know, people always say she's difficult, she's crazy - well, I think they liked the idea that she was. It was easier for them to explain all these other things that didn't add up about that family. You know. The father never around, not very interested. The mother this great beauty, hugely talented but hasn't painted for years, the fact that the house used to be this mecca for glamorous young things and not any more, the death of the younger daughter, the atmosphere that something's just not quite right - I think it was easier for people to look at Miranda and gossip than look any further. Does that make sense?'

That family. He talks about them as if they're nothing to do with him, or me, as if they're not my family any more.

'Anyway . . . it was always very casual. We'd meet at parties, or we'd go out for some pasta when I was in town, catch up, and then she'd come back to my shambolic bachelor pad in Bloomsbury . . .' He drops his hands into his lap. 'She was rather wonderful about it.' He smiles. 'Then I'd go back to the States, or she'd find some other boyfriend . . . it was never official with us. Only ever a few times a year. There were always others buzzing around, you know?'

'I know,' I say, feeling disloyal, but unable to deny it. 'So you didn't think it was weird, when you knew she was pregnant?'

'That's just it,' Guy says emphatically. 'I never knew she was. I've thought it all through, these last few weeks. You see, I came back in '77. I was reporting on the Queen's Jubilee for an American newspaper. Your mother and I saw each other a couple of times that summer. Once or twice, if that, nothing much. We met . . .' He trails off. 'Yes. We met at the French House. In Soho. The anniversary of Cecily's death, 6th August. I remember it really well. I was going to Ulster the next day, to report on the Queen's visit. It was going to be rather hairy, security everywhere. I was supposed to have an early night, but . . . we stayed up drinking, and talking . . . Eventually we went back to her place . . . I remember . . .'

He glances at me and falls silent. 'What?' I say. 'Never mind,' he says gently, and I realise there are some things I don't want or need to know, and it occurs to me that perhaps I was conceived that night, the anniversary of Cecily's death.

'Anyway, it wasn't anything out of the ordinary, us meeting up like that. We weren't in touch otherwise. And then I didn't see her . . . didn't see any of them, for another two years.'

'Really?'

'Yes,' he says. 'No idea. I think Louisa mentioned that Miranda had had a baby, but by then I was married, we were having children . . .'

'What happened to the girl in the States?'

'I saw sense,' he says. 'I married her. That was Hannah.'

'Your wife?'

He smiles sadly. He has a melancholy smile, my father. 'Yes. And I'm an idiot. We both were. It just took us a while to realise it. But all those wasted years, that's what makes me angry.' He nods seriously, as if remembering something. 'But we realised in the end. We were married in 1980, and our

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first daughter was born a year later, and our second in '86.' He says slowly, 'Hannah died five years ago. Five years ago in April.'

I squeeze his hand gently. 'I'm so sorry,' I say softly. 'Thank you.' Guy clears his throat. 'What are your daughters called?' I ask, trying to catch his eye.

'My daughters.' His voice is warm. 'My other daughters, you mean? Hah. Roseanna and Cecily.'

'Cecily?'

He smiles. 'You just met her.'

I think of the lovely young woman at the door. 'That's my half-sister.' Guy leans forward. 'Yes, it is.'

'She looks like Hannah.' I have very vague memories of Hannah, who had beautiful long red hair before she lost it all, and who was American and funny and very kind. Guy nods.

'She does.' He looks pleased. 'I'm sure you've seen them before but you'll have to meet them, properly. They know about you. Cecily might not have known that was you at the door but she probably did. They know you exist. I told them last week. They're very excited.'

'Really?' I can't imagine it, having been an only child my whole life. Siblings are a completely strange entity to me, I have no idea what it's like, having sisters. Being part of a family. 'They're excited? Do they want to meet me?'

'All in good time,' Guy says, non-committally, and I know he's being diplomatic.

He stands up again. I look at my watch. It's ten o'clock. The house is very still, there's no noise from the street either.

'Do you want some toast or something?' Guy says from the sink. 'I've been a shockingly neglectful host.'