freezes. My father is the first to work out the maths. 'Twenty-five years?' I nod. He nods back and that's that, he and I are back to normal. It's a liberation and for a moment I can overlook the fact that my mother still hasn't moved. My chair squeaks against the floor tiles when I stand up to give Dad a hug. I turn and open my arms to her too but she's gone. * In my room at The Glendower, the socks over the radiator are more or less dried so I move them to the back of the chair, stretching out the soap-washed stiffness of the material at the same time, and put my underwear on to cook instead. The mobile reception in this room is awful. I blame the oak panelling. Finally I find a patch near the window and send Benedict another apology text. I am not expecting a reply. I pad through to the en-suite and brush my teeth, trying to find reasonable answers to the questions I imagine he would be asking, if he were talking to me. Why are you still there. Don't you know how important this week was to me. I really needed you there at the gallery opening with me. Have you told your mother she can't talk to me like that. Why did she say she had no idea who I was. Have you really told them. What's going on up there. Why haven't you come back. If you