Free When Will There Be Good News? by Kate Atkinson

'Life's random,' he said. 'The best you can do is pick up the pieces.' He wasn't police but it wasn't like marrying out. He understood.
    He was Irish, which always helped. A man with an Irish accent could sound wise and poetic and interesting even when he wasn't. But Patrick was all of those things. 'Between wives at the moment,' he said and she had laughed. She hadn't wanted a diamond, big or otherwise, but she'd ended up with one anyway. 'You can cash it in when you divorce me,' he said. She liked the way he took over in that authoritative way, didn't stand for any of her shit yet was always amiable about it, as if she was precious and yet flawed and th e flaws could be fixed. Of course, he was a surgeon, he thought everyt hing could be fixed. Flaws could never be fixed. She was the golde n bowl, sooner or later the crack would show. And who would pick u p the pieces then?
    For the first time in her life she had relinquished control. An d what did that do to you? It sent you completely off-balance , that's what it did.
    Or a centrepiece for the dining-room table. Something smallish , something red. For the red figure in the carpet. Not roses. Red rose s said the wrong thing. Louise wasn't sure what they said but whateve r it was, it was wrong.
    'Don't try so hard,' Patrick laughed.
    But she was no good at this stuff and if she didn't try she woul d fail. 'I can't do relationships,' she said, the first morning they woke u p in bed together.
    'Can't or won't?' he said.
    He had broken her in as if she was a high-strung, untamed horse.
    (But what ifhe had just broken her?) One step at a time, softly, softly, until she was caught. The taming of the shrew. Shrews were small harmless furry things, they didn't deserve their bad reputation.
    He knew how to do it. He had been happily married for fifteen years before a carload of teenage joyriders overtaking on a bit of single carriageway on the A9 had smashed head-on into his wife's Polo, ten years ago. Whoever invented the wheel had a lot to answer for. Samantha. Patrick and Samantha. He hadn't been able to fix her , had he? She still had enough time, time to buy the flowers, time to shop in Waitrose in Morningside, time to cook dinner. Sea bass on a bed of Puy lentils, twice-baked Roquefort souffles to start, a lemon tart to finish. Why make it easy when you could make it as difficult for yourself as possible? She was a woman so, technically speaking, she could do anything. The Roquefort souffles were a Delia Smith recipe. The rise and fall of the bourgeoisie. Ha, ha. Oh, God. What was happening to her, she was turning into a normal person. She was buzzing with tiredness, that was what was wrong with her. (Why? Why was she so tired?) In a former life, before her beaut y was measured in the size ofa diamond, she would have wound down with a (very large) drink, ordered in a pizza, taken out her contacts, put her feet up and watched some rubbish on television but now here she was running around like a blue-arsed fly worrying about delphiniums and cooking Delia recipes. Was there any way back from here?
    'We can cancel,' Patrick said on the phone. 'It's no big deal, you're tired.' No big deal to him maybe, huge deal to her. Patrick's sister and her husband, up from Bournemouth or Eastbourne, somewhere like that. Irish diaspora. They were everywhere, like the Scots.
    'They'll be happy with cheese on toast, or we'll get a takeaway,' Patrick said. He was so damned relaxed about everything. And what would they think if she didn't make an effort? They had missed the wedding but then everyone missed the wedding. The sister (Bridget) was obviously already put out by the whole wedding thing. 'Just the two ofus, in a registry office,' Louise said to Patrick, when she finally gave in and said yes.
    'What about Archie?' Patrick said.
    'Does he have to come?'
    'Yes, he's your son, Louise.' Actually Archie had behaved well, looking after the ring, cheering in a mumed, self-conscious way when Louise