On Monday morning Imogen drew four boxes on the back of an envelope: kitchen, bus stop, clinic, home. She joined them with a pencil line and left the rest of the envelope empty.
She had an appointment about her rheumatoid arthritis at eleven. Her colleague had also asked if she could come to a planning meeting afterwards, and Imogen had not yet replied. She wanted to go. Someone would have put the wrong dates on the poster again, and she wanted the pleasure of catching it before anyone printed two hundred copies.
The lid of the marmalade jar would not move. She held it between her knees and tried again, then put it back in the cupboard and ate dry toast. One button on her blouse defeated her too. She left it undone beneath her coat and checked the time: if she missed this bus, she would have to pay for a taxi.
At the stop she took out her phone. I can't make the meeting, but I'll read the notes tomorrow. She added an apology, deleted it and sent the message before she could put it back.
Her colleague replied while she was on the bus. Fine. Have you still got the poster file?
Imogen found it and sent it across. She watched the little arrow turn, then settle into a tick.
At the clinic, a woman in a red scarf asked whether she was next. They compared appointment times, then watched a silent cooking programme on the waiting-room television. The chef lifted a pan with one hand and gave the camera an enormous smile. Imogen looked away before he could toss whatever was in it.
After the appointment she reached the bus stop in time to see her bus pull away. The next one was due in twenty minutes. She could go to the shop for milk, but carrying it home would mean stopping on the hill. She sat on the bench and crossed milk off the list in her head, irritated by how much attention a litre of milk could demand.
Her neighbour had signed for a parcel and brought it over just after Imogen got home. It was a book Imogen had ordered months ago and forgotten. She took it to the sofa and left it there while she rested.
At six her brother called. He asked how the appointment had gone.
“I got there and back,” she said. “I'm tired. I don't want to talk about the rest tonight.”
“All right. Shall I bring supper?”
She looked at the envelope on the table. The line ended at home. Last time he had brought groceries, he had stayed to tidy the fridge. She had thanked him, then spent the next evening looking for the cheese and trying to explain why she was cross.
“Yes,” she said. “Could you bring the lentils you made before? Not the ones with peppers.”
“I remember.”
“And come at seven? I'll probably want an early night.”
“Eight?”
“Half past seven, if you can. And leave the fridge alone.”
He laughed. “I deserved that.”
When he arrived, he put the rice and lentils on the counter. Imogen asked him to find two bowls; he opened the wrong cupboard first and looked at her. She pointed to the one above the kettle.
They ate on the sofa. Afterwards she opened her parcel, and he took the bowls to the sink. She heard a cupboard door and raised her head.
“Glasses,” he called. “I'm getting water.”
“Left of the fridge.”
He came back with two glasses and sat at the far end of the sofa. Imogen read the book's dedication twice without taking it in. Her brother told her about a dog he had seen wearing a yellow raincoat.
“Did it look pleased?” she asked.
“It looked employed.”
At eight she put the book down. He noticed and began gathering his things. At the door he asked if she wanted him to take the empty containers.
“Leave them,” she said. “I'll put something in them tomorrow.”
After he had gone, she crossed out the clinic on her envelope and wrote milk beside the bus stop. She put the pencil down. Then she added a question mark after it.
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