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to Surrey? That was expensive as well as embarrassing.’
    â€˜Why was that embarrassing? That wasn’t embarrassing.’
    â€˜It was embarrassing because of your careless driving. Your carelessness was an embarrassment.’
    â€˜You know full well my driving had nothing to do with it. That wall was nigh on invisible, by the side of the road like that. Behind the turn. Under the bush. We could have sued.’
    â€˜This is so typical, Max. You just can’t ever accept that you’ve made a mistake.’
    â€˜I’m perfectly willing to admit when I’ve made a mistake. But I don’t see why I should say I’ve made a mistake when I haven’t made a mistake.’
    There was an acrimonious pause.
    â€˜You know what is really embarrassing, Max?’
    â€˜I’ve got a feeling you’re going to tell me.’
    â€˜The fact that you’ve never once in your life admitted that you’ve done something wrong. And it’s even more embarrassing that you never get embarrassed when you make a fuck-up. That I find truly embarrassing. And so would you, if you had even a modicum of self-awareness. Which you don’t.’
    Max, as their conversation gathered animosity and momentum, had started to feel like a spectator. Here was the globe, scarred by war, fouled by inequality, blemished by the ugliness of industry, modernity, technology, and the cruelness of nature underlying it all; here were the little chips of land called Britain; here was the seething bearpit of London; here was the M25, cobbled with vehicles; here was the jam; here, his own car; beside him was his wife; behind him two children. Here was the magic tree, dangling from the mirror. Here was the logo, coined in the centre of the steering wheel. Here was the car seat. Here was his body. And within that he crouched, confused and tiny and alone, looking out.
    Why was he behaving like this? He, who prided himself on his high-mindedness? And how could he explain this visceral hatred he felt towards his wife? He had long admitted, to himself at least, that he no longer wanted her. They shared the bonds of circumstance – they had a joint mortgage, joint car, joint child – and once, before the darkening mists of time descended, they had experienced something that could be called love. But now it was duty, nothing else. It came in two parts. Number one: he had promised never to leave her. Number two: the responsibility for Carly was on his shoulders. His own father had worn his responsibilities lightly, and shrugged them off the first time they were tested. And the decades that followed had proved beyond doubt his mistake. Max would never do the same. Number three: despite everything, he was determined to be a good man.
    What would Ursula say if he were to just turn away and pull out a book? He should do it. He should simply pull out apaperback and begin to read. But he didn’t have a paperback. Either way, he wished he was the sort of man who, cognisant of his wife’s anger, could concentrate on a paperback. He had tried it in the past, not with a paperback but with a magazine, managed it for one sentence, for two. But he had never even made it to the end of the paragraph. No, his emotions were not his own.
    How long could he live with this conflict inside? How many more nights would he have to endure before he could lay his head on the pillow knowing that he would sleep easily, and through the night? Ursula was talking to him now. He could hear her as if from a great distance, as if through a wall of water. She was trying to return them to the conflict. To their natural state. Had she really suggested that they borrow a phone from a stranger? Why was he so resistant to the idea? Was it simply because Ursula had come up with it? Perhaps his reaction had been knee-jerk. Perhaps it demonstrated his lack of trust in humanity. He had to admit, if only to himself, that should some poor soul knock on the