A Question of Identity by Anthea Fraser Page B

She’s worried about Daniel.’
    Catherine’s son, a computer programmer, lived with his wife and baby daughter in Cricklehurst.
    â€˜Oh? Isn’t he well?’
    Tom hesitated. ‘I’m not sure I should be telling you this.’
    â€˜Well, you’ve started, so you might as well finish!’
    He took a sip of tea. ‘Between you and me, he and Jenny are going through a difficult patch.’
    â€˜Really? I thought they were blissfully happy. They certainly give that impression.’
    â€˜I think they have been, up to now. The trouble is, Daniel’s incredibly busy and having to travel more than he did, which involves being away overnight. Added to which, Alice is still not sleeping through, Jenny’s missing out on her own sleep, and it’s been getting on top of her.’
    â€˜So how serious is it?’
    Tom sighed. ‘It looks as though she’s seeing someone else.’
    â€˜God!’ Rona stared at him. ‘And Daniel went running to his mother?’
    â€˜Lord, no: he was away this week, and Catherine went over on Tuesday to babysit, to give Jenny a break. And while she was at the cinema with a girlfriend, this chap phoned.’
    â€˜Oh dear!’
    â€˜Without giving her a chance to speak, he launched into plans for their next meeting, before realizing he was speaking to Jenny’s mother-in-law.’
    â€˜Big mistake! Did Catherine tackle her about it?’
    â€˜I’m not sure what happened. She was very upset, as you might imagine, and blurted out the gist of it when she got home; but she didn’t go into details, and I suspect she now regrets having mentioned it.’
    â€˜So presumably Daniel knows nothing about it?’
    â€˜Presumably not.’
    Rona finished her cake in contemplative silence. ‘Poor Catherine,’ she said then. ‘She must be wondering whether or not she should tell him.’
    â€˜Yep. Don’t pass this on, will you?’ Tom said anxiously. ‘I probably shouldn’t have told you.’
    â€˜I won’t say a word,’ Rona promised, ‘but I do hope they sort it out; I like them both.’
    â€˜What were you dreaming about last night?’ Gavin asked curiously, at breakfast the next day. ‘You were tossing and turning and muttering most of the night.’
    Magda looked up quickly. ‘Sorry if I disturbed you.’
    â€˜But what was it about, can you remember?’
    â€˜And this is the man who says nothing’s more boring than other people’s dreams!’ She reached for the cafetière. ‘But since you ask, I
can
remember, because, unusually enough, the dreams I’ve had this week have stayed with me all day, and frankly I wish they hadn’t!’
    â€˜Why? What are they about?’
    â€˜It wasn’t so much the content. They were the usual mishmash – snatches of scenes and people, not making any sense when you analyse them. But it was the way I felt when I woke. Disorientated and –
angry
, somehow.’
    â€˜Better not eat any more cheese at supper, then!’ Gavin advised, and returned to his newspaper.
    Driving to work that Friday morning, Lindsey wondered, with mild irritation, when her sister would refer to the photograph she’d slipped into her bag. Admittedly, there was no hurry – the book group wouldn’t meet for another three weeks – but she’d like to have at least some news to pass on to William in the interim.
    The group met once a month at the home of Debra Stacey, who had initiated it some six months ago, and who lived in one of the turnings off Alban Road North, a five-minute drive from Lindsey’s flat. There were ten of them in all, none of whom had known each other before replying to Debra’s advertisement in the local paper. Most were older than Lindsey, several considerably so, but they were a friendly bunch, who all contributed to their literary discussions.
    William