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'It's in your bag.'
'Am I wearing my hat?'
'Yes.'
She smiled, told me that Bismarck was not to be disturbed and that I mustn't buy anything from a door-to-door salesman unless it was truly a bargain, and was gone.
I changed Fnday, then let him toddle off to find something to do. I made a cup of tea for myself and Hamlet, who had switched on the TV and was watching MOLE-TV's Shakespeare channel. I sat on the sofa and stared out of the windows into the garden. It had been destroyed by a mammoth when I was last here and I noted that my mother had replanted it with plants that were not very palatable to the Proboscidea tongue – quite wise, considering the migrations. As I watched, Pickwick waddled past, possibly wondering where Alan had gone. In terms of the day's work I had done very little. I was still a Literary Detective but £20,000 in debt and no nearer getting Landen back.
My mother returned at about eight and the first of her Eradications Anonymous friends began to appear at nine. There were ten of them, and they started to chatter about what they described as their 'lost ones' as soon as they got through the door. Emma Hamilton and I weren't alone in having husbands with an existence problem. But although it seemed my Landen and Emma's Horatio were strong in our memories, many people were not so lucky. Some had only vague feelings about someone who they felt should be there but wasn't. To be honest I really didn't want to be there, but I had promised my mother and I was living in her house, so that was the end of it.
'Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,' said my mother, clapping her hands, 'and if you'd all like to take a seat we can allow this meeting to begin.'
Everyone sat down, tea and Battenberg cake in hand, and looked expectant.
'Firstly I would like to welcome a new member to the group. As you know, my daughter has been away for a couple of years – not in prison, I'd like to make that clear!'
'Thank you, Mother,' I murmured under my breath as there was polite laughter from the group, who instantly assumed that's exactly where I had been.
'And she has kindly agreed to join our group and say a few words. Thursday?'
I took a deep breath, stood up and said quickly:
'Hello, everyone. My name's Thursday Next and my husband doesn't exist.'
There was applause at this and someone said: 'Way to go, Thursday,' but I couldn't think of anything to add, nor wanted to, so sat down again. There was silence as everyone stared at me, politely waiting for me to carry on.
'That's it. End of story.'
'I'll drink to that!' said Emma, gazing forlornly at the locked drinks cabinet.
'You're very brave,' said Mrs Beatty, who was sitting next to me. She patted my hand in a kindly manner. 'What was his name?'
'Landen. Landen Parke-Laine. He was murdered by the ChronoGuard in 1947. I'm going to the Goliath Apologarium tomorrow to try to get his eradication reversed.'
There was a murmuring.
'What's the matter?'
'You must understand,' said a tall and painfully thin man who up until now had remained silent, 'that for you to progress in this group you must begin to accept that this is a problem of the memory – there is no Landen; you just think there is.'
'It's very dry in here, isn't it?' muttered Emma unsubtly, still staring at the drinks cabinet.
'I was like you once,' said Mrs Beatty, who had stopped patting my hand and returned to her knitting. 'I had a wonderful life with Edgar and then, one morning, I wake up in a different house with Gerald lying next to me. He didn't believe me when I explained the problem, and I was on medication for ten years until I came here. It is only now, in the company of your good selves, that I am coming to the realisation that it is only a malady of the head.'
I was horrified.
'Mother?'
'It's something that we must try and face, my dear.'
'But Dad visits you, doesn't he?'
'Well, I believe he does,' she said, thinking hard, 'but of course when he's gone it's only a memory. There isn't any real proof that he ever existed.'
'What about me? And Joffy? Or even Anton? How were we born without Dad?'
She shrugged at the impossibility of the paradox.
