There had never been a choice, for her. How could she have raised that child? What possible stories could she have told him about who he was, how he had come about? It was a gift, not knowing now stupid his mother was or how his father should have known better. A chance to invent himself, write his own story. Have a good life with people who loved him.
That was the best she had felt she was able to give him.
Adam
Ever since breakfast, Adam had been looking for somewhere to be alone.
At points today he had felt as though he was genuinely on the cusp of a panic attack. That pressure behind the eyes. That weird horrible fizzing in your veins. That awful sensation as if all of a sudden you could no longer remember how to breathe. All day, his phone buzzed and twitched incessantly in his pocket and he had been constantly trailed by one anxious Home employee or another seeking sign-off on the final details for tonight’s party, all sent in his direction by Nikki. His mood had not been improved by the fact that no fewer than three people had mistaken him for Ned – from a distance, from behind, but still, it was not exactly flattering, given the age difference and how much stockier than Adam his elder brother had always been. By mid-afternoon, on about the fifteenth occasion someone had queried whether Adam was allowed to approve something or other （the colour of the sun-lounger coverings for the roof of Manhattan Home, to be precise – and you could see quite how paralysing it was for everyone, for the company, Ned’s insistence on always having the final say on everything）， Adam had quite spectacularly lost his temper, asked them whether they knew how long he had been with this company, screamed that no, he did not need to check with his brother before signing off on five thousand dollars’ worth of calico, who did they actually think they were speaking to? An hour later he had called back to apologize and to suggest that, having looked at the two options, maybe they should hold off on a decision just for a bit.
That was when it had occurred to him it might be a good idea to find somewhere quiet and dark to be alone with his thoughts for a little while.
There were two screening rooms on the island, both housed in the same purpose-built cabin, both equipped with top-of-the-range sound and projection equipment and seats as spacious and comfy as armchairs. This weekend, one screen was showing a programme of self-consciously hip, trippy stuff （El Topo, Szindbád, Stalker, A Field in England）。 The other, rather obsequiously, was showing the complete works of Jackson Crane in chronological order – and was currently, Adam saw on the blackboard in the foyer bar, up to 1997’s Captain Aquatic. There was, of course, no sign on the door about turning your phone off, because this was the island without phones. As the door bumped closed behind him, Adam switched his own off and slunk into the back row.
Captain Aquatic. That took him back. Oh boy, what a mess of a movie that had been. Of all the films either Ron Cox or Jackson Crane had ever made, it was comfortably the worst. The epitome of a bad 1990s superhero movie. The whole concept of the thing unpromising to begin with （surfer dude nipped by genetically altered dolphin gains increased strength, swimming abilities and sonar, plus a heightened sense of mankind’s environmental responsibilities）。 Jackson Crane with that terrible blond dye-job, kicking henchmen through crates, running across rooftops, leaping off exploding speedboats, delivering laughable dialogue in a strange monotone. The endless fight scenes in smoky alleys, slow-motion roundhouse kicks. The terrible special effects throughout. The laughable plasticity of the dolphin. The deadly leaden irony of it all, the cheap cynicism, the joylessness. Perhaps that was just what happened when you took a funny, fresh, playful comic and tried to use it to sell a million plastic toys. Perhaps it was something to do with the notorious on-set tension between Jackson and Ron, their simmering dislike for one another. Captain Aquatic was one of those films you always thought you’d be able to enjoy if you turned half your brain off, but which somehow even then felt strangely depressing.
Evidently this was also the conclusion that the two members in the front row had reached; they left noisily just after Adam arrived, tripping up the steps to the exit in the dark. Now, apart from Adam, only two people remained in the room. Adam couldn’t see the person in the third row, but could tell someone was there by the gentle, rhythmic snoring. The third, down at the far end of the row in front of him, was Georgia Crane. Had she noticed him come in? He thought not. She seemed intent on the car chase unfolding in front of them, Jackson Crane （or more likely his stunt double） dangling in latex from the wing mirror of an eighteen-wheeler, the driver attempting to lean across and bang on his fingers with a tyre iron. It was always strange watching someone you actually know up on the big screen, so much larger than life, both themselves and not. It must be even weirder with someone you were married to. How old would Georgia have been, when this movie came out? A student, certainly. Perhaps she had gone to see it with her college friends at the cinema. That was pretty strange to think about too.