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Again.

She heard him then, his voice blurred by sleep, Who is it?

It's me.

Finally there was movement. A scrambling sound, a bang. The door opened before her raised hand and Julian stood there, naked and sleepy, eyes half shut.

Laetitia? What's wrong?

She laid her hand flat on his chest. It was warm, slick with sweat. Can I come in?

Yeah. Of course. He caught her wrist and pulled her behind him into the room. She closed the door.

What's the matter? Has something happened?

No. Yes. I mean no, nothing's happened. It's just… hold me, Julian. Please. I think I'm coming apart.

He opened his arms wide, a gesture of total acceptance. Or so it seemed to her. And his face was soft. She stepped towards him and sobbed. His dreadlocks swung forward and covered her face. Her cheek rested on his damp chest. Sweat. Beeswax. Golden Virginia. The smell of him pricked at her senses. She felt her shoulders relax.

We need to talk. I… it's crazy what we're doing. It's … She could hear her voice rise again, hysteria seeping through.

Julian put his fingers to her lips. Shh, he said. Wait. Clare's here.

Where? Laetitia jerked away from him and looked round the room. Where?

In the bathroom. Look, I'll… get rid of her. He was whispering now, his voice soft, tugging at the edges of her panic, smoothing it down like a linen sheet, cool on a bed.

And then she realized what he'd said. Clare? Clare? Julian, she's sixteen. She's a child. You didn't… you haven't been? Oh my God! Julian!

It's not like that, he said. It wasn't like that.

So, what
is
it like? Her panic was turning to anger, her face felt hot now, her eyes gritty.

It was only… it was… it's you I want, Laetitia. You know that. Fucksake, man, I've been telling you for long enough. Come here. He pulled her towards him again and she stayed stiff in his arms at first, then drew back.

Get rid of her? You can't just discard her like… like a used condom or something. She's a child. What's that going to do to her?

She'll be fine. She's more mature than she looks. It's just something that happened. A product of circumstance. It just
happened. It doesn't mean anything. It's nothing. Honestly, babe, it's nothing.

Laetitia studied his face. It was earnest, his eyes wide. Innocent. Nearly. She laid her head again on his smooth chest, unexpectedly smooth for a man with all that hair on his head. And on his face. Clare wasn't her concern. Julian pulled her so tightly to him that the muscles in his arms trembled and the breath went out of her.

They could have stayed that way all night, but there was Clare. In the bathroom. Clare to be dealt with. Simultaneously they stepped back from each other. Julian exhaled a great sigh. His breath smelt. Of tobacco, of garlic, of the metal smell of his sleep. She breathed in deeply.

Right, he said. Clare. Wait here. I'll sort it out, babe. I promise.

She tightened her grip on his hands till their arms were stretched straight between them before her fingers would disengage. Like the principal dancers in a
pas de deux
about to pirouette and jeté away from each other to opposite sides of the stage. She folded her arms across her chest, cold suddenly, and watched Julian back towards the bathroom, his eyes never leaving her face.

At the last moment he turned, rapped sharply on the door. Vaguely the sound of water running became audible to her. She was having a shower. At a time like this. The girl was having a shower.

Clare, Julian said.

A frisson of pleasure went through her at the thought of the expulsion to come. Defenestration. The word popped into her head. The Defenestration of Florence. A
Star Trek
phaser set on
Beam you up, Scottie; little Scots girl, disappear
. I am a truly horrible person, she thought. This is a sixteen-year-old.
Not much more than a child. An image sprang to mind of herself at sixteen, her gaucheness in adult company, her hands huge, hanging at her side. She shook her head and the muscles on her face tightened.

Clare. Julian knocked again, more sharply this time. Clare, it's alright, you can come out.

The girl wasn't responding. Laetitia felt a spurt of anger. Julian's ear was to the door and his dreads stood out chaotically, pointing in every direction. She smoothed down her own hair and swatted the tears drying on her face. A cursory glance at her hands found they were stained with mascara now, and shaking. She stuck them in the back pockets of her jeans, rocked on the balls of her feet till she found a precarious equilibrium.

Clare, what's keeping you? C'mon. Julian was becoming irritated. His voice had that harsh quality that unsettled her. Now she wanted it to work on Clare.

Clare, for Christsake! Julian said.

Finally the door began slowly opening. This girl was milking the situation for all it was worth. Laetitia stood stiffly on the spot. Julian came to her, put his arms round her. Then he stepped back, let his hands weigh heavily on her shoulders, brought his face level with hers.

OK, he said. You ready?

The girl came into the room.

She looked at the bed. Then her eyes darted round, her enormous eyes. They found Julian, stayed on his face. This girl is determined not to see me, Laetitia thought, either from fear or sheer will. Her dark red hair was tousled, falling onto the shoulders of her white hooded top. She looked lost. She looked… She looked…

Hi, she said.

She looked like the white girl. Scared and lost. Whistler's White Girl.
Symphony in White Number One.

This was not going to be easy. But it's my shoulder Julian's arm is round, she thought.
My
shoulder. He could sense her tension, squeezed her arm. Without looking at him, she knew their old attunement was there.

Clare… he said.

What?

But Julian said nothing. His fingers squirmed, digging into the flesh of her upper arm. Where were the certainty and irritation of a moment ago?

What? Clare said again. A note of defiance was creeping into her voice. But her pink face had gone as white as her jumper. She stood uncertainly, her left hand plucking at the leg of her jeans.

Clare, look, I…

Julian was going to blow this. His voice was growing feebler by the minute. Feeble, feeble, feeble. And he was looking at his wretched feet.

Let's all sit down, shall we? she said. She looked about the room. There was the chair. Gold wicker. No doubt handsprayed by the redoubtable Mrs Abensur. She lifted it. Her muscles were so tense, it shot up, lighter than it ought to have been. An image of wings on its feet came into her head. Enid Blyton's flying chair. She set it down facing the end of the bed and looked at Clare.

Please sit, she said. The girl looked back at her, as if she might bolt. A woodland sprite ready to dart behind a tree. A nymph.

Nymphette.

She kept her hands on the chair till the girl came and sat, her hair brushing the backs of them. Damp, artfully tangled,
the dew of the forest still on it. A thickness falling down the middle, a single plait, half concealed by curls. No, not a plait. A dreadlock. She looked at Julian. She could kill him. At this precise moment, she could kill him.

She sat on the end of the bed. Her hands were shaking so badly she had to clasp them round her knee to still them. There was a strange lightness seeping into her body. As if she might levitate. As if she needed something to hold her down. A guy rope. Stones in her pockets. She thought she caught a whiff of chloroform. But where on earth could that be coming from?

Julian sat beside her. His weight on the bed reclaimed her. Even though he appeared to have lost it. Totally. He was going to be useless in this. Worse than useless. He was keeping his eyes on the carpet. She looked at Clare.

Good shower? Her voice sounded clipped like her mother's. Strangulated.

The girl shrugged. She was slouched down in the chair, trying and failing to look unconcerned.

Alright, I suppose, she said.

What happened to your hair?

Clare looked up at her, uncomprehending, her eyes darting from Julian back to her. No help for you there, Clare, Laetitia thought. You're on your own. She drew strength from the knowledge.

It's just a wee bit damp. Clare's voice was growing quieter.

No, at the back. She pitched her voice to match Clare's, but the honey was laced with acid. She knew it and couldn't help it. This child was quaking in front of her and here she was peeling off strips of her pale skin.

Oh, that? Clare said, with her infuriating glottal stop. Julian was showing me how to make dreads.

Perhaps now he'd come in. Offer an explanation. Take
some responsibility. But his eyes were still down. He looked ghastly too. Laetitia wondered if she was as pale as the other two. If they were a threesome in pallor. Ghosts at their own feast.

I see. Well, I think you'd better comb it out, hadn't you, before you get home. Your father wouldn't like it.

Clare looked at her hands in her lap. She just sat there.

So…

Clare, I think you should go back to your own room. At last Julian had raised his head and spoken. He was even managing almost to look at Clare. Almost. Clare's head was still bent, but she was looking up at Julian through the hair that half concealed her face. Even behind the tangle of curls, Laetitia could see her blush. She felt something close to empathy for her. Close, but not enough to offer any kindness. She wanted her out. Now.

Clare made a move finally. It was painful to watch. She walked about the room, face screened by the red hair, picking up her belongings; stepped carefully over their legs, hers and Julian's, thigh to thigh now on the bed; opened the door and was gone.

I'm home. Laetitia set her rucksack down on the polished wood floor of the hall.

Mummy, I'm home. She breathed in the smell of the place: wood polish, that exclusive room freshener that started off trying to convince you everything was lemon fresh, but soon came out in its true odours – cloying sweetness, with a suspicion of cat's piss seeping through underneath. And fresh paint. What had her mother been decorating now? The depression that invariably accompanied her return started to drift like mist around her.

She turned to close the door. The broken stained-glass
panel above the handle had been replaced. A good match. Near perfect, except that the new red was a little more vivid, the turquoise a touch too green. Otherwise the nymph still stood among reeds on the bank, her brown curls permanently held off her face by a tiny pink hand, her toe dipped forever into the glassy pool. Laetitia's favourite piece of the jigsawed glass; the way the pink foot turned green in the water and, between the two colours, no black leaded line. Consummate artistry, her mother liked to tell guests. She'd never reveal to them that the house was a comedown. After Wellwood House, a severe disappointment. So much more convenient, she'd say, for all one's needs. She made Laetitia wince, she was so transparent; her need for approval utterly naked.

Hello. Are you there, Mother? It's me, Laetitia.

Laetitia heard a sound from above and her mother's blackslippered foot appeared at the top of the stairs.

Is that you, darling? You're back early.

I'm back exactly when I said I'd be, Mother. The rest of her came into view on the stairs.

Well, no need to be touchy, dear. You know how I lose track of time.

Under the hall light, she could see that her mother's hair was a shade or two lighter than it had been when Laetitia had left for the start of term. And it was styled to swing glossily at every move of her head. She'd clearly succumbed at last to the advice of her friends:
Dark hair at our time of life, darling, ages one so
.

I like your hair. It's different.

She flicked it in an exaggerated Miss Piggy gesture from both sides of her face and held her head at a coy angle. Do you think so? I'm so glad, sweetie. I'm not used to it yet. But look at you! She held her arms out to Laetitia and drew her
into a bony embrace. Laetitia submitted stiffly till her mother stepped back, keeping a tense grip on her shoulders.

You look lovely, bunny rabbit, my own lettuce leaf. She managed that trick she had of looking deeply into Laetitia's eyes without seeing anything. And she had used up her entire repertoire of endearments in the first two minutes; any moment now, the needling would start.

You're wearing your red cashmere. I'm so glad. Did it keep you warm? It ought to have at the price I paid for it. Shockingly expensive, deValois, but
the
best quality anywhere in the country. Now, come and have a drink.

She took her hand and pulled her towards the drawing room. Something was wrong; Laetitia could feel it. Her mother was even more relentlessly superficial than usual. That brittle sweetness, like the caramelized sugar on a crème brû lée. The image that always followed instantly, a spoon cracking through the crust to the soft mess underneath. Her father breaking the ice on the pond, hefting the pick over his shoulder, crashing through on the first downswing, the explosion of rooks from bare branches, the splash of icy water, the orange flash of the old carp, startling against the white.

Laetitia pulled her hand out of her mother's. No, I'd like to dump my stuff in my room first.

Dump, darling? Her mother turned to look at her, the lines at her mouth etched clear, one side of her face brushed by an upflicked strand of glossy hair. One doesn't dump. Bin men dump. Demolition men dump. I dare say other sorts of tradesmen…

Yes, alright, Mother,
I get the photy
, as they say in Glasgow. Laetitia was pleased with her glottal stop, but she'd have to work on ironing out the diphthong. Not that her mother was alert to such fine distinctions: she pursed her mouth and said nothing.

I'll come down and join you for drinks in a minute. Laetitia went to pick up her rucksack from beside the hall table, turned and made for the stairs.