The Good Wife Strikes Back by Elizabeth Buchan

From the Publisher

Elizabeth Buchan's New York Times bestseller Revenge of the Middle-Aged Woman was hailed as "a thoughtful, intelligent, funny, coming-of-middle-age story" by The Boston Globe. Now she's back with another wise and entertaining novel about a woman who veers off the beaten path—and finds much more than she bargained for. After nineteen years of being the perfect wife to an ambitious politician, Fanny Savage is restless. Tired of merely keeping quiet and looking good at public engagements, she remembers the career she abandoned and the life she left behind as a successful partner in her father's Italian wine business. She has devoted two decades to being the Good Wife. Was it worth it after all? Could it be time for a trip back to Italy—to the pleasures of sun, wine, and food? Could it be time for . . . a change?

USA Today

Novels about women breaking out of traditional roles and demanding something nice for themselves are nothing new. But Buchan's knack for seamlessly weaving the past and the present, slowly exposing Fanny's growing restlessness and creeping irritation with the status quo, is visceral and on the mark. Her characters don't end up as losers, whether they stay married or not. They simply learn that "to be a wife was separate and distinct from being a woman." — Carol Memnott

Publishers Weekly

When Fanny, 23, first lays eyes on Will, 28, he is making a speech in his bid for a seat in Parliament. They fall in love instantly, and this latest novel by Buchan (Revenge of the Middle-Aged Woman, etc.) records the parallel 19-year trajectories of their marriage and Will's political career, the private and the public. Buchan crafts beautiful sentences, which she stacks in airy, digestible paragraphs; yet the novel fails to convey the excitement of the events in Fanny's consciousness that constitute the real plot. She wrestles from first to last page in service of a single question: what exactly does it mean to be good? Fanny wishes to be not just the titular good wife but also a good mother to 18-year-old Chloe; a good daughter to her fiery wine-merchant Italian refugee father, Alfredo; and a good sister-in-law to the alcoholic Meg, who seems to lurk in every doorway. Fanny must also please her husband's political party leaders by appearing in skirts of the correct length and avoiding all substantive talk at state dinners, and she feels duty-bound to reach out to the mother, Sally, who abandoned her at age three to run off to America. Yet these relationships, which constitute the substance of the novel, have scant weight. Even when Fanny makes an impulsive trip to Italy, the story fails to ignite. Buchan's fans will still find much to admire in this thoughtful, intelligent effort, but will hope the author's next springs more vividly to life. (Jan.) Forecast: Viking is attempting to build on the success of Revenge of the Middle-Aged Woman by bringing Buchan to the U.S. for a 12-city author tour. Enthusiasm for this novel may be more muted, but Buchan's name recognition should continue to grow. Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.

Library Journal

When Fanny Savage married up-and-coming politician Will, she didn't quite grasp what his successful career in Parliament would mean for her future: that every activity in her life, from vacations to the way she dressed, would be measured against how it would play in the eyes of Will's constituents. Now, as Fanny nears her 50th birthday and almost two decades of married life, events conspire to make her reconsider her original commitment. In quick succession, her teenaged daughter decides to take an extended trip to Australia following her graduation from secondary school; Fanny's father dies; and her patience with Will's sister, Meg, who lives with them, comes to an end. It takes a trip to her father's hometown in Italy, a reunion with her first lover, a tragic accident, and an election to force Fanny to make some difficult choices about her marriage and her own future. Unfortunately, Buchan's new novel (following Revenge of the Middle-Aged Woman) will disappoint all but her most loyal fans: there are too many one-dimensional characters, too many subplots that go nowhere, and too much uninspired prose. [Previewed in Prepub Alert, LJ 9/15/03.]-Nancy Pearl, Washington Ctr. for the Book, Seattle Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.

Kirkus Reviews

Buchan again agreeably celebrates a middle-aged woman's use of guile and smartness to score subtle points and victories in taking back her life from a demanding husband. Though Fanny Savage loves Will, the truth is that ever since they married-they even had to cut short their honeymoon because a sudden election was called-she's had to be the loyal political wife: the wife who never knows when he'll be home, who is unable to have her own life because she must be supportive, attend local events, and put up with the aides who virtually live in her house. Will is now a cabinet minister in the British Parliament, dreaming of even higher office and relying on Fanny's unswerving loyalty. Chloe, their only child, is about to graduate from high school, and Fanny realizes that time is passing and that she needs something more in her life than family and politics. She's also tired of coping with Will's alcoholic and divorced sister Meg, who lives with them. Meg is there because she raised Will after their parents died young, but she is opinionated, intrusive, and frequently unreliable. Fanny used to help her own Italian-born father run his wine business, but marriage to Will ended that. Now, feeling restless and resentful, she decides to make some changes-but then her father suddenly dies. Distraught and needing time alone, she takes his ashes back to the Italian village of his birth. There, finding peace and a sense of belonging, she's not only tempted to stay but to have an affair with an old lover, now back in her life. As she ponders what to do, life suddenly gets tough for Will when Meg dies in a drunken fall; he loses an election; and he fears that Fanny won't come back. But Fanny, realizingthat she still loves Will, knows how to use his vulnerabilities to gain some advantages of her own. Another winner from the author of, most recently, Revenge of the Middle-Aged Woman (Feb. 2003). Author tour. Agent: Mark Lucas/Lucas Alexander Whitley

Product Details

• Reading Group Guide
• Read an Excerpt

Reading Group Guide

The Good Wife Strikes Back takes a very different route but explores emotional territory that will be familiar to readers of Buchan's previous novel. Fanny Savage is the "good wife" of the title -- she has faithfully performed her role as the spouse of an ambitious politician, and after 19 years, the question arises: What has become of her own life, dreams, and career ambitions? With a brisk, eloquent intelligence, she forces herself to confront her own sense of incompleteness.

Fanny explores this dilemma by returning in memory to the early days -- and crises -- of her marriage to Will. Buchan paints an image of a nearly overwhelmed young wife and new mother that many readers will instantly recognize. Book clubs will find that the complexity of Fanny's situation provokes some fascinating discussions -- how far should a woman go to preserve her marriage? And how much should any person be prepared to sacrifice for their spouse or child? Buchan finds plenty of humor in Fanny's world of compromises -- but when tragedy strikes her family, the question of Fanny's divided loyalties is unmistakably poignant.

The novel's most daunting question is raised by the character of Fanny's sister-in-law Meg; Her alcoholism makes her a family burden, which falls too often on Fanny's shoulders. Meg's often tempestuous relationship with Fanny complicates her relationship with her husband and daughter, and ultimately leads to one of the most painful crises of Fanny's life. Book clubs will appreciate the clear-eyed approach that Buchan takes to the problem of addiction. But they will equally applaud the way that The Good Wife Strikes Back is able to blend humor and sadness, penetrating wit and deep feeling. Once again, Buchan has woven together these disparate notes to create a symphony in which both discord and harmony find their place. Bill Tipper

Introduction and Discussion Questions from the Publisher
On Fanny and Will Savage's nineteenth wedding anniversary, they attend Ibsen's A Doll's House. In the play, the main character, Nora, struggles to break free from social conventions. Elizabeth Buchan could not have chosen a more appropriate opening to The Good Wife Strikes Back, a novel in which Fanny, the wife of a career politician, finds herself at a personal crossroads after nearly two decades of marriage. In depicting Fanny's "creeping restlessness and growing sense that it was time for a change" and her path toward personal fulfillment, the author paints a bittersweet yet tender portrait of an imperfect marriage, the bonds of family, and finally -- contentment.

Fanny's journey to reclaim her identity awakens in her a yearning to return to her aging father's wine business. When he dies suddenly of a heart attack, Fanny decides she must go to Fiertino, Italy, her father's birthplace, to scatter his ashes. There, against her husband's wishes, Fanny sets up a makeshift home in Italy, where she begins to reflect upon all of the years spent caring for other people -- her alcoholic sister-in-law, Meg; her daughter, Chloe; Will and his career -- and to wonder what toll those years have taken on her. One morning, sitting on Casa Rosa's steps, she wonders, "How often do we have time to seek our secret selves and bring them to light? To examine and say, with delighted recognition, so this is what I am? This is what I might be? This is where I will go?" But confrontations also await Fanny in Fiertino when Meg arrives in a whirlwind, forcing both women to confront the complexities of their relationship.

Then a sudden accident tests the true fabric of the Savage family, and Fanny leaves Italy to return to Stanwinton, where a changed world awaits her. Will has lost a family member as well as his political office. Chloe is traveling and discovering herself, so their nest is empty. Together, the couple must rebuild their lives without the bustle of their daughter or the trappings of Will's career or Meg's ever-looming illness. In the end, Fanny discovers that one of her lifelong passions is a perfect metaphor to describe what she's learned about life: "If good wine takes time to make, and I know it does, so does a home. It was just that we, it, and the family had taken a little while to come together, to settle down, and grow a ripeness and body."

Questions for Discussion
1. Discuss the importance of opening the novel with Ibsen's A Doll's House. Did it have any bearing on what you thought the ending might be?

2. Fanny seems to have deep connections to particular places in her life -- such as Ember's House, the home she shares with Will, the tree house, her mother's house in Montana, and Casa Rosa. Compare and contrast the different feelings they evoke for Fanny and how you feel about your first home or your grandmother's home, etc.

3. Did you find Will to be a sympathetic character? Were you surprised by Fanny's father's advice to her after Will's transgression? As a reader, were you able to forgive him?

4. Was it unfair of Fanny to begin to buck her "duties" as a politician's wife? Do you think she fully understood what she was giving up when she married Will and again when she backed out of her father's wine business?

5. Were there any parallels between Will and Meg's relationship and Chloe and Sacha's? Were these relationships inappropriate? Why or why not?

6. How do you think Fanny's mother affected her daughter's decisions? How did you feel about her mother? Did you fault her for the choices she made?

7. What do you think you would have done in Fanny's circumstances? Did the ending surprise you?

8. Do you think the author has an opinion about marriage and its affect on a woman's identity?

9. In your experience, is it possible to strike a fair balance between being a mother and wife as well as your own woman? Is it inevitable that, for a time, your identity becomes just that of mother/wife? Is that wrong?

A Conversation with Elizabeth Buchan
Your previous novel, Revenge of the Middle Aged Woman, also revolved around a marriage -- albeit one in greater disarray than Fanny and Will's. Do you find marriage a particularly rich area for a writer? If so, why?
From the novelist's point of view, marriage is an endlessly fertile theme. It can wither, flourish, demand, cradle, discourage, and encourage -- sometimes all at the same time. Most of us embark, at one time or another, on a long-term partnership, and, with women now liberated, the challenge is how to make it work on this new basis.

There are statistics that count infidelity as the number-one reason for divorce. After Will's transgression, were you able to forgive him? Did you want his character to be seen as a sympathetic one?
Will is guilty of a moment's stupidity and carelessness -- and most of us are guilty of that in one form or another. He should be forgiven. Having said that, his infidelity has consequences and he has to face up to them. I conceived of him in a sympathetic light but it is true that he does, in the first part of marriage, get away with quite a lot. One of the points of the book was to suggest that men's and women's lives operate in different ways. As Will grows older and less successful than he hoped, it is clear that Fanny, who is now free of child care and is consequently surer and more experienced, can step into the breach and negotiate what she wants from a position of much greater strength.

Did you know the outcome of this novel when you began or did Fanny take on a life of her own and drive the plot herself? Generally, how close do you become to your characters?
Yes, I had the form and structure of the novel very clear in my head from the first. But, as usual, I was surprised by what happened in the journey from A to Z. That is one of the pleasures of writing and creating. I love my characters and I know that the book is beginning to take life when I wake up in the morning with a piece of dialogue or a plot ratchet as first my conscious thought. Fanny was always there in my head -- she and I talked often! She is not the kind of woman who is going to run the country -- the majority of us are not -- but I wanted her to be the sort of character whom one meets every day and who tries to live her life with grace.

Which of the characters was the most difficult for you to make a real, multifaceted person? Why?
Will was difficult. He comes from a long line of alpha males who were used to making certain assumptions about their wives and families. Tracing his journey from the young man with ideals to the older man whose ideals have dwindled into ambition took a lot of thought.

How do you feel about marriage? Do you think it will survive as an institution as relationships between men and women continue to evolve into something different than they were decades ago?
Possibly. Having said that, marriage is about the one institution that can still root us, and most of us crave some kind of security in our daily lives. Yet perhaps a greater realism has to be faced as we are living longer, and fidelity -- the physical kind -- will come not to be regarded as an absolute.

Which novelists have influenced your writing the most? What are you reading now? I think it is very difficult to escape the influence of the great nineteenth-century novelists -- Jane Austen, George Eliot, Flaubert, and Tolstoy -- who set such high standards. I admire hugely Scott Fitzgerald, Evelyn Waugh, Ian McEwan, and Margaret Atwood. For the days when one needs a reading lollipop, I retire to the sofa with Nancy Mitford or P. D. James. I have just finished reading Siri Hustvedt's What I Have Loved, which is sensationally good.

What are you working on now?
My latest novel takes two very different women, one contemporary and one in the 1950s, and compares and contrasts their intimate, inner lives. As they try to make sense of the conflicting demands of liberation and duty, freedom and the constraints of biology and time, they become linked in a variety of surprising ways.

Read an Excerpt

My husband Will, a politician to his little toe, did not entirely get the point. He maintained that sacrifices in the cause of the common good were sufficient in themselves to make anyone happy. And since Will had sacrificed a significant slice of his family life to pursue his ambitions as, first, a promising MP, then a member of the Treasury Select Committee, then minister, andó latterlyóas one who was tipped to be a possible Chancellor of the Exchequer, it followed that he should have been supremely happy.

I think he was.

But was I?

Not a question, perhaps, that a good wife should ask.

On our nineteenth wedding anniversary, Will and I promised each other to be normal. To this end, Will carried me off to the theater, ordered champagne, kissed me lovingly and proposed the toast: ìTo married life.î

The play was Ibsenís A Dollís House, and the production had excited attention. Although I could see that he was aching with tiredness, Will sat very still and upright in the seat, not even relaxing when the lights went dim. An upright back was part of the training he had imposed on himself never to let down his guard in public. Although I am better than I used to be, I am still laggardly in that department. It is so tempting to slump, hitch up my skirt and laugh when my sense of the ridiculous is tickledóand there was much in our life that was ridiculous. Politicians, ambassadors, constituents, coffee mornings, chicken suppers, state occasions...a wonderful, colorful caboodle replete with the ambitious and the innocent, the failures and the successes.

Of necessity, Will laughed with circumspectionóso much so that, once, I accused him of having lost the ability through lack of use. There was only a tiny hint of a smile on his lips when he explained to me that one small error of attention could undo years of work.

I sneaked a look at him from under eyelids that still stung from the morningís regular date with the beauty salon. Dyed eyelashes were a necessity because, when I do laugh, my eyes water. In the early part of Willís career, when I was being scrutinized and weighed and measured from head to foot by sharp eyes in the constituency, Mannochie, Willís watchful and faithful political agent, had been forced to whisper discreetly, ìTrain tracks, Mrs. S,î which meant my mascara had smudged. There was no option but to laugh off that one and whisk myself to the nearest mirror for a quick repair job. This was part of the bargain struck between Will and me. In short, to look good as the ministerís wife was to be good.

Dressed in pale, shimmery blue, Nora made her entrance onto the stage and her husband asked anxiously, ìWhatís happened to my little songbird?î

Will reached over for my hand, the left one, which bore his wedding ring and the modest ruby we had chosen together. It was small because, newly engaged and glowing with love at the prospect of shared happiness and mutual harmony, I had not wished him to spend too much money on me. Hindsight is a great thing, and I have come to the conclusion that modesty is wasted when it comes to jewelry. The touch of his hand was unfamiliar, strange almost, but I had grown used to that, too, and it was not significant. Beneath the unfamiliarity, Will and I were connected by our years of marriage. That was indisputable.

At the end of the play, still in her pale blue, Nora declared, ìI donít believe in miracles any longer.î The sound of the front door opening and closing as she left the house was made to sound like a prison gate clanging shut.

Someone in the audience gave a little cheer. It echoed above the perfectly groomed heads in the stalls, and there was a rustle of collective embarrassment at this demonstration of female solidarity.

When Parliament sat, Will lived in London during the week, in a mansion block in Westminster and it was London where he did his deals in the Membersí tearoom, and struck alliances. In the old days, he came down to Stanwinton at weekends to nurse his constituency and his family, in that order, and I came up to London infrequently. Now that Chloe, our daughter, was eighteen, I was free to come up to London most weeks, but tonight we were driving home.

I watched the cold, eerie city lights give way to the shadows of the suburbs. At home, I often played the game of not-turning-on-the-light-until-the-very-last-minute. I loved that moment of transition between light and dark, and the textures of light and shade. I had learned that if I remained quite still something surprising might swim up out of the spaces in my head. Sometimes only a fleeting thought. Sometimes a revelation or a conclusion. Its chief element was of surprise and I found myself increasingly craving the delight of discovery. It was the moment to consider peace, happiness, expectation,...but, lately, I suppose, to reflect on a certain, creeping restlessness and a growing sense that it was time for a change.

Will cleared his throatóI recognized the signalóand began to talk about his project of the moment: the controversial European initiative to tax anyone with a second car. ìThereís no question, but we have to do something before the world chokes. We canít stand by and do nothing; we must show that we mean what we say.î He turned. ìFanny? Are you listening?î

ìOf course,î I said. ìLook at the road, Will, not at me.î

ìWell?î

But I was thinking of the days when my energy had been devoted to Willís political life and objectives and wondering why I did not feel the same. It was not as though we were old. I still loved Will, although sometimes ripples of irritation and exasperation made me forget I didóbut that was marriage. Our life still held many possibilities.

ìFanny...? Do you agree with what I am doing?î

ìI donít think it stands much of a chance,î I replied. ìI donít think people always want to be told what is good for them.î

ìSo Iím on my own on this one?î he said with the tone of one well used to arguing a case. ìFair enough.î

An hour or so later, he nosed the car into the drive, unsnapped his seat belt and reached for the red box filled with papers, which required attention, that was never far from a ministerís side.

ìI hope you enjoyed the evening.î He hefted the box onto his knee and added, ìWeíve made it Fanny, havenít we? Nineteen years...î

I felt a sudden, intense disquiet. Or was it bewilderment? Where had those years gone? One of the saints, I think it was Theresa, wrote that the soul has many rooms. So does a life, and a marriage. Motherhood, too, and I had been curious to shine a light into each one. But having struggled through the muffling intimacies of being a wife and a mother, I was now asking: Which room was mine alone? Into which still, private room could I retreat?

I smiled at him. ìIt was a lovely evening.î Then I leaned over and kissed him.

When we let ourselves into the house, I realized that Iíd made the mistake, unlike Nora, of continuing to believe in miracles. The commotion that greeted usóMeg shouting and Sacha, her son, cajolingómeant only one thing. Willís sister had been drinking.

ìWhy?î I murmured. ìWhy now? Sheís been off it for months.î

Willís face had tightened into the expression of frozen distress that I knew so well and dreaded. ìIíll deal,î I said. ìYou go and check on your papers. Otherwise you wonít get any sleep.î I pushed him gently in the direction of the study. ìGo.î

I went down the passage that ran the width of the house and waited a moment or two at her door. The noises had stopped.

ìSacha?î

ìUpstairs, Fanny.î

I found him in Megís bedroom, manhandling his motherís inert body onto the bed, and hastened to help. Meg was hunched on her side. I smoothed her hair back from her forehead. She was as fair as I was dark, and much smaller boned. ìHas she had a lot?î

Sacha arranged her legs into a more comfortable position. ìIím not quite sure.î He added with an effort, ìSorry.î

ìItís not your fault.î I bent down to retrieve a whiskey bottle from the floor. It was still three- quarters full. ìI donít think sheís had that much...î

ìBut enough.î

ìSheís been brilliant lately, and didnít touch a drop while you were away.î Sachaís nu-metal band was struggling to get off the ground, and he was frequently away traveling the circuit.

He flinched and I could have kicked myself. ìIt isnít you. It isnít you coming back....Itís the time of year, or an unexpected bill oróî

ìShe rang my father today. He wants to renegotiate the alimony. Thatís probably it.î

ìYes. Thatís it.î Meg had never got over Rob walking out on her when Sacha was tiny. ìTalking to your father is always tricky for her.î

ìI know,î he said. He spoke far too wearily for a twenty-four-year-old. I slid my arms around my surrogate son. He smelled so clean. He always did, however many smoky, drink- filled places heíd worked in. ìDonít despair.î

ìI donít,î he lied.

ìShall I sit with her?î

Sacha propelled me toward the door. This was between him and his mother and, now that he was older, he tried to keep it that wayóbecause it was so terrible and so intimate.

I turned to look at him. ìIt was only once, remember,î I said. ìThereís been months and months of nothing.î

In Megís kitchen, her lost battle was marked out by a trail of half-empty coffee cups. The one by the phone was still full, and signaled the moment of defeat. ìI hate you for knowing when to stop,î she had once told me.

I harvested the cups and washed them up, scrubbing angrily at their brown, scummy rims. Through the window, I watched a vixen slide along the darkened flower bed. She was thinner than a London fox. They say that foxes are safest in the city, but I wonder if they are plagued by a genetic memory of the past. Do they miss the smell of corn in high summer, the crispness of frosted grass?

I left the mugs to drain and found Chloe slumped at the kitchen table beside a glass of apple juice. I bent over and kissed her. She smelled of shampoo and her soft cheeks were slippery with face cream.

She rubbed her eyes. ìCouldnít really sleep,î she said. ìIs Aunt Meg OK?î

I trod warily. Will and I had been clever enough to hide the worst of Megís excesses from our daughter. Chloe was still too young to be told the absolute truth, but too old to be lied to. ìFine.î

She looked anxious and a little bewildered. With her fair hair and dark eyes, she was a smaller, infinitely more delicate version of Will. One day she would be beautiful and that promise gave me deep, unqualified pleasure. ìDid you and Dad enjoy the play?î

ìIt was brilliant; we had a lovely evening.î

She polished off the apple juice. ìItís nice that you two went out together.î

ìDid you do all your homework?î

She shrugged irritably. ìBrigitte stood guard and I told her to get lost... but I did it.î

Brigitte was our temporary au pair-cum-housekeeper, who took her duties very seriously.

ìTea?î

She shook her head.

ìBed, then.î I pulled her to her feet, hustled her upstairs and settled her. I hunkered down beside her and whispered, ìEverythingís fine.î

Chloe closed her eyes. ìDo I really have to go to Pearl Verikerís funeral tomorrow?î

ìDad says we must. No argument.î

ìItís not fair,î Chloe hissed. ìJust because you have to do all these ghastly things, you make me as well.î

ìGo to sleep.î

I hovered for a minute or two outside her room. Poor Chloe. She would learn that every shared life, every separate life, has bloodstained patches and tattered remnants of compromise. Sometimes, too, the dull ache of small martyrdom.

Will was already in bed and I slid in beside him. ìChloe woke up. Iíve tucked her back in.î

ìGood.î He hesitated. ìIs she... is Meg all right?î

ìSleeping.î

ìWhat triggered her off do you think?î

I thought about it. ìShe and Rob talked on the phone about money, but I suspect that it had something to do with our anniversary.î

Our conversation went round and round on the subject of Meg. As it always did. Will scratched his head. ìI would give much to think that Meg was happy and sorted out.î He turned to me. ìShe has a lot to thank you for, Fanny. So do I.î

My feelings for Meg could be ambivalent, but being thanked by Will was sweet.

He stirred restlessly. ìWhat do you think is best, Fanny?î he said. ìDo you think we should arrange more help for her? Could you manage to do that?î

ìI could, but it might be better if you could talk to her. Maybe she needs a bit of your attention.î

He thought about this. ìI havenít got the time at the moment. But I will when I can. I promise.î

I used to dream of a big, generous, blowsy household where children rustled and murmured in the bedroomsótwo, three, even four of them. And every night, I would do the rounds. ìThis is Millie,î I would say, smoothing fair tangles away from her face. ìThis is Arthur,î removing the thumb from his mouth. ìAnd this...this one is Jamie, the terror.î

But it had not happened that way. After Chloe there were no more babies. My body pulled and strained to obey my longings, but it could not do what I asked of it. Sometimes they haunt me, my nonchildrenóthose warm, sleeping, rosy bodies, the children-who-never- wereóand I listen out for them playing under the eaves.

ìI donít mind,î Will said to me once. ìWe have Chloe, thatís enough. We look after her. I look after you. You look after me, Fanny. Be content, please.î

ìDonít you mind at all?î I asked.

He touched my cheek. ìI mind for you. I mind anything that hurts you.î

Yet, as it turned out, my household was full, and we had been happy. First Chloe was born, and I was catapulted into the terror and mystery and exultation of a love that would never die. Then Meg came to live with us; Sacha too, after his sixteenth birthday. The au pairs came and went; the party workers slipped in and out, each leaving a ghostly imprint on the atmosphere, their rustles and murmurs dissolving into the general murmur of life.