‘There’s a bit of an issue with that, Harry,’ she says. ‘We need to talk.’

Harry frowns and Hazel can see the toddler in the teen, bottom lip a sulky wedge.

‘But…’ His voice is resentful.

‘Not now, Harry.’ Virginia’s voice is crisp but calm, as she nods towards Hazel with a warning look. Harry turns on his heel.

There is the sound of his trainers squeaking in the hall and then the heavy click of the door.

Hazel stands up. She feels fine, just a little light-headed. ‘I think I’ll go now. Thank you.’

‘My pleasure. But don’t go into work unless you feel OK,’ says Virginia. ‘You live at number thirty, don’t you? I remember seeing you the other day.’

‘Then why haven’t I seen you?’

Virginia laughs. ‘I get up at different times each day,’ she tells her. ‘It’s nice to get out and have a walk. I’m here on my own all day otherwise, rattling around in this big house!’

Alone? How can a woman like this be alone? Hazel stares. ‘Don’t you have a husband?’ The words are out before she realises (there she goes again).

‘Not any more.’ Virginia leans into the table, holding the back of a chair.

Hazel can see rings on her wedding finger, a flash of gold, rubies.

‘He died, not long ago.’

‘My dad died.’ Hazel wants her to know she understands. She knows – about death.

Virginia places a hand on Hazel’s hand. This is not a familiar sensation, but unlike other people’s hands – clammy, intrusive – Virginia’s hand is a comfort, a togetherness.

‘But we, Hazel, are very much alive,’ she says softly, ‘and I’ll see you later, at four, for algebra.’

She has a smile so wide that Hazel wants to smile too. She doesn’t find this easy because of her teeth, which stick out unattractively, so she has trained herself to lip-smile. But sometimes, when practising in the mirror, she thinks she looks a bit like a duck. Or a constipated horse. So sometimes what starts off as a lip-smile changes halfway through to a mouth-smile and the effect, she worries, is a kind of strangled leer. She wishes, for the thousandth time, that she could be natural with people, blissfully secure, responding the way others seem to, without forethought. But this, she realises, is for normal people, not for her. You’re not normal, Hazel, and you never will be! Her mother’s words, like a curse, are never far from her mind.