A luminous novel of love, conflict and sacrifice.

It's time to stop fighting, and go home. She hasn't left a note. It's not as though she is planning to kill herself, like last time. Then she had left a note, thinking it only polite, to exonerate her husband from any blame or self-reproach, to apologise and excuse herself, as though she were a schoolgirl asking to be let off gym class, instead of the rest of her life. When she had returned, having not gone through with it after all, her hair damp and reedy smelling, as though she had simply been swimming in the Hampstead Heath Ponds instead of trying to drown herself there, the note was still on the counter. Patrick had been working late. She wasn't sure if she had failed to end her life because she was too lazy and non-committal - she hadn't tried hard enough, the gentle, shallow water hadn't tried hard enough either, it had bobbed her back up again, and offered no helpful current. Perhaps, like the water, she was just too kind - it was kinder for everyone if she lived, wasn't it? All life, even a life as unimportant as hers, performed some kindness to those it touched; wouldn't her husband, if no one else, appreciate this kindness? Or perhaps that was just vanity - she hadn't destroyed the note, but had smoothed it into their diary on the kitchen table, as one might a shopping list, or a love letter, or a poem; but Patrick never noticed it, because he didn’t make appointments, she supposed. She eventually screwed it up and put it into the recycling box, which Patrick did take care of, judiciously separating paper, glass and plastic. He still didn't see it - or if he did, he saw it as just another piece of paper.