Mama comes outside with a jug of water mixed with apples, sour cherries and sugar. She leaves it on the crooked wall beside us and goes back into the house. I catch the jug before it topples and pour the sweet, cloudy liquid into the chipped glasses. I want to tell Maria about the dream and the sheets and the bleeding, but she is strangely quiet today and looks off into the distance, as if she would rather be anywhere but here. She jumps up suddenly, ‘Gross.’ There is a battalion of tiny black ants marching across her hand.

I laugh. ‘They don’t bite.’

She stands and brushes them off her skirt. ‘Ugh, where did they think they were going?’ We both giggle as she flicks a few fellows intent on climbing up her inner thigh.

‘I better go, Nico. I don’t want Papa finding out I came here.’

‘Will you come again tomorrow?’

‘I’d better not …’

A long silence stretches between us, and then, as she goes to leave, she whispers, ‘I know what has happened to you, Nico. Maybe now your papa will start to look for a husband for you too.’ She is looking at the sheets drying in the hot sun. ‘Now you’re like all the other girls in class.’

I double over. It’s as if the stone in my stomach has splintered into tiny shards that catch in my throat. ‘I’m too young.’

She squeezes me quickly. ‘I know, dreamer. Don’t worry – our papas are only starting to look. We all have to finish school first, and anyway, you’re our star pupil!’ She blows a kiss as she hurries away down the lane. I look upwards and notice that I can’t see any shapes in the clouds. They are just streaks of dirt across a hard, polished blue surface.

4. Sammy

4

Sammy

I am right: Mr and Mrs O’D have called in the cavalry and the troops are swarming the gaff, devising a plan, every light on inside so it’s lit up like the White House. The garden is flood-lit, sprinklers on full blast, the spray caught in the beams, dancing. I fucking love this house. Luce rings on the discreet sing-song bell, and her mum, Mr O’D, her auntie Bryony and uncle Bob crowd behind the door, all red-wine boozy, goblets of the stuff gripped in their hands. The remnants of a dinner party are sitting on the dining-room table; the smell of garlic, onions and oozy steak makes me want to heave.

‘What the hell?’ says her mum when she sees me in Luce’s arms. ‘I should have known it had something to do with this girl.’

Right on cue, Mrs O’D.

And then her dad’s voice, calmer, soothing, ‘Is she all right, Lucy? What happened? Are you all right? Come in, come in.’