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to arrange visits. None of it helped.

Part II
Exile
    Boston, Day One, Saturday, 25 August
    We’re here. And I wish there were something good to report.
    Actually, the house itself is pretty nice. It’s a large townhouse on Marlborough Street, with more bedrooms and (though I hate to admit it) more bathrooms—and nicer ones—than we had in our detached house on Hermitage Lane, which was pretty nice itself. BM never exactly bragged about how much money he has, or makes, unless you count that comment about how he can afford to give Persie all the care she needs, but a house like this in London would have cost many millions of pounds.
    BM wanted to give us the grand tour right away, mumbling something about how it would be easier for Persie this way, so he could go to her sooner and stay with her until dinner, despite the fact that Mum and I were both nearly falling over with exhaustion. It was mid-afternoon Boston time, but of course that’s much later London time, and we’d been working ourselves to the bone to get ready. Yes, that included me; I’ve decided that my only realistic option is to go along with things until I can make the changes I want (read: Get back to England).
    Mum convinced BM that we needed to collapse someplace comfortable and have some refreshments before trying to take everything in. I was just glad that the place was air-conditioned; the wave of moist heat that hit me getting into the car at Logan Airport was like nothing I remember experiencing at home. So much for the Northeast US having cool weather. I gather it sometimes snows quite a bit here in winter, but you’d never know it in August.
    As we passed through the various rooms on our way to the kitchen, I did take note of some things, and I have to say that whoever decorated the place has good taste. Hand-knotted Pakistani rugs everywhere, which I recognised because I helped Mum shop for a few replacement rugs at home last year. The muted pastel wall colours don’t interfere with the furniture upholstery, and there are beautifully restored ornate ceilings in the formal rooms. BM turned conspicuously to me as we passed the music room, where there’s a baby grand Steinway along with shelves and shelves of CDs.
    In the kitchen, which is large and very modern, BM had us sit at the table for six at the far end of the room, in front of a large window that overlooks a small bricked patio at the back of the house. He served us himself, though it was all laid out—no doubt by someone else—and Mum and I could have served ourselves: chilled San Pellegrino with lime in stemmed wine glasses, pâté, cheese, carrot sticks, light crackers, and olives.
    Mum and I were both pretty quiet, though not for all the same reasons. She was hot, exhausted, and overwhelmed; I was hot, exhausted, and bitter. As I said, I’m going along, for now, but I don’t have to like it.
    BM took us upstairs next. The master suite is here, running front to back of the house and taking up rather a lot of space. With its own sitting room and the sliding glass doors in the back onto its own large balcony with a weatherproof table and two chairs, it’s really its own flat; all it lacks is a kitchen. Someone had already brought Mum’s baggage up.
    â€œOh, thank God! Brian, I’m going to have a bath immediately and then maybe a nap.”
    â€œYou don’t want to see Simon’s room first?”
    She hesitated, like she’d already started drawing her bathwater. “You’re right, of course.” But I could tell she’d much rather not.
    Persie’s rooms—bedroom, bath, and playroom, BM told us—are on this floor, too, I guess where BM can keep an eye on her. He pointed towards the closed door that leads to them but didn’t approach it. His voice low, he told us, “Persie is in there now with Anna Tourneau, her live-in tutor.”
    I couldn’t resist. “Her tutor lives