She was still finding her way with Jack. It wasn’t like he was rebelling against her, or treating her like a wicked stepmother. He was perfectly friendly and relaxed with Ellen; she was the one who felt on edge. She noticed that her voice got terribly bouncy whenever she talked to him. It reminded her of being fourteen and in love with the one-legged boy at the neighboring school. Giles was kind to her, as he was to all the girls who adored him, and the patient, distracted expression he got on his face while Ellen babbled on at the railway station, trying desperately to make some sort of impression before the 3:45 train arrived, was identical to the one on Jack’s face. It said: I couldn’t care less really, but I’m a nice person, and I don’t want to hurt your feelings, so I’m just going to keep smiling until you stop talking.

And it was even worse when she tried to play it cool, to act as if she didn’t care what Jack thought of her, because he was so self-contained, so busy with his own life, that he really did just completely forget about her existence, which was exactly what used to happened with Giles too.

Well, this was what she had signed up for. She’d loved the idea of a stepchild, of an instant family. She should be happy that Patrick was treating her like a wife and taking it for granted that she would be in charge of homework this afternoon. She should be focusing all her attention on poor little Jack, who had lost not one but two mothers by the age of five and was probably suffering from terrible abandonment issues.

“YES!” shouted Jack, holding his computer game aloft.

“Jesus,” said Patrick. “Don’t kick the back of my seat.”

But shouldn’t Patrick have checked with her first? Wasn’t he taking advantage of her? To assume she’d be available?

Of course, then again, she herself hadn’t bothered to check with Patrick before she’d made the arrangement to have coffee with Julia. So she’d been acting like a single person too, like Jack wasn’t her responsibility at all.

It was so difficult to work out what was fair and what wasn’t. Presumably parents had some sort of procedure, an approval process when you were making arrangements. She’d have to ask her friend Madeline about this.

“I thought you said you’d clear out all the boxes from the hallway this afternoon,” said Ellen.

Saturday had been taken up with Jack’s sports activities, and Patrick had promised he’d have the boxes gone by the end of the weekend.

“Oh sure, don’t worry,” said Patrick. “When I get back from the office I’ll do it.”

He wouldn’t. She knew he wouldn’t. He’d be too tired after today’s trip, and then the office. It would be too late. Jack would want his attention when he got home, and then Patrick would want to collapse on the couch in front of 60 Minutes. It would be mean to remind him then. It would be considered “nagging.” She would have to put up with another week of those boxes sitting in the hallway.

All that clutter was having a catastrophic effect on the feng shui of her house. She seemed to remember that the front entrance was called “the mouth of chi,” where all the energy was meant to flow through. No wonder she was feeling so irritable—all the energy was being stopped at the front door!

Of course, now was certainly not the time to push the issue of the boxes; not when Patrick was so uptight about the lunch with Frank and Millie.

But the words were as irresistible as the last chocolate in the box.

“You won’t move them,” she murmured to the window, as if saying it quietly didn’t really count.

“What did you say?” Patrick spoke sharply.

“Nothing.”

“Ellen! I just said I would move them.”

“So you did hear me.”

“Are you two fighting?” asked Jack with interest.

So much for beautiful poignant moments, thought Ellen.

I decided I would spend the rest of Sunday watching television. A few months ago, Lance, who works in the office next to mine, lent me the series The Wire. He and his wife are always developing obsessions with TV series, and then he talks on and on about the fabulous character development and the amazing plotlines and the whatever—it’s just television. I always want to say, “Look, Lance, I’m not that interested in television. I have a life.”

Ha. Good one.

Such a pity that “stalking” isn’t a socially acceptable hobby.

For some reason he insisted on lending me the series, even though I’m sure I’d showed minimal interest. He wants me to watch it so we can talk at length about each episode. I know this because he lent The West Wing to another girl in the office, and then every time he saw her he wanted to know what episode she was up to so he could do an in-depth analysis. Eventually she started hiding, leaping into nearby offices whenever she saw him coming down the corridor.

So I was never going to bother watching it and Lance has given up asking me if I’ve seen the “pilot” yet, but suddenly it seemed like the perfect way to swallow up a whole Sunday. I would eat toast and chocolate and try to let the rest of the day go by without even thinking of Patrick, Ellen or Jack. I was even looking forward to it.

But of course, like so many other things, it wasn’t meant to be.

When I drove into my driveway, the new family from next door was pulling in too, with impeccably horrible timing.

They moved in on Friday, and they’re just as bad as I knew they would be. A swinging-ponytail mummy and a bald-in-a-cool-way daddy. A little girl with freckles and curls. A little boy with dimples. They’re adorable and athletic, friendly and frisky. It’s going to be like living next door to four Labradors. They introduced themselves and said they hoped they wouldn’t be too noisy, and I must tell them if they are, and they must have me over for drinks sometime. I tried to be polite but standoffish so they would know that none of this was necessary, that all that was required was a friendly wave. Jeff or the real estate agent should have explained this to them. The garage door sticks, garbage night is Monday, the neighbor doesn’t require conversation.