“All right,” Gini said obligingly, anything to make Lindsay stop nagging. “I’ll come. I won’t shame you. I’ll talk. I’ll eat. I won’t twitch.”

“You don’t twitch,” Lindsay replied fondly. “Not yet anyway. But you have to reform. Twitching’s next.”

She had arrived, Gini saw now, at Lindsay’s house, although she had no recollection of aiming for it, or turning into the right street. She mounted the steps and rang the bell, and after a long delay it was answered by Tom.

“Oh, hi,” Tom said, leaving the door wide, and sprinting for the stairs. “Come on up. I’m alone. Gran’s out. Mum phoned. She said to make you a sandwich, she’s going to be late. I said I would make a sandwich, but there wasn’t any bread. She said there was a shop on the corner, and she hung up. She sounded mildly premenstrual, but then, she often does. I had a temperature of 102 two days ago, did Mum tell you? Extreme, huh? I mean, four more degrees and your brains boil. Did you know that?”

“Not consciously,” said Gini, reaching the top floor and the kitchen. “But it makes sense.”

She looked at Tom, whom she had not seen since leaving for Sarajevo. He had grown a ponytail since she last saw him, and he seemed to have acquired new powers of speech. He was wearing a torn sweater, torn jeans, and he had nothing on his feet. He was about to be a man, and about to be handsome, Gini thought, but he had not yet acquired a man’s social duplicity. He was staring at her; then he blushed and his eyes slid away from her face.

“I know,” she said. “Didn’t Lindsay tell you? I’ve lost weight.”

“I’ll make some coffee…”

He was already turning away in embarrassment, trying to fill the kettle at a sink overflowing with unwashed dishes. “Shit,” he muttered. “Maybe I’d better clear up a bit, before Mum gets back. It’s Gran’s turn—we have assignments now, Mum’s latest ploy to keep chaos at bay. Gran skives off though. She doesn’t like washing dishes. She says the detergent gives her a rash.”

“Convenient,” said Gini, who knew Louise of old.

“Yeah. That’s what I said.”

“I’ll help. If I wash and you dry, it won’t take long. What time is Lindsay getting here?”

“She said one-thirty. Maybe two. She’s in a flap because she’s off to Paris Monday. Away this weekend with you. The social whirl.” He grinned. “That makes her guilty. When she’s guilty she gets, like seriously premenstrual. Plus there’s some creep at her office and they’re at war, about to go nuclear, and this creep held her up.”

“Concise,” Gini said, running hot water. “Perhaps a little crude on the female psychology, but I get the picture. You didn’t want to join us at Max’s, then?”

“Not my scene.”

“It was once.”

“Not anymore. Too many babies. Charlotte’s pregnant again, and—What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. I just scalded myself, that’s all. This water’s a bit hot.”