To the right of the window is a door that she pushes open, expecting to find a cupboard within, or a walk-in wardrobe. It is larger than that, though not much. There is a paper frieze of illustrated ducks dancing around the centre of the lemon-painted walls. There is space enough for a cot, but the room is bare. The emptiness of it makes Viola shudder and she shuts the door again, eager to be rid of the sight, of the feeling too.

Leah’s bed is made just so, with cushions on top of pillows, a counterpane folded back from the duvet – Viola expected as much. She also knew she would find the full suitcase on the bed, ready to close, but still she tuts and shakes her head – disappointed. There is a glimpse of petrol-blue fabric beneath the piles of neatly folded items in neutral colours. Viola tugs the blue thing free – a gaudy pleated skirt – and holds it up before tossing it, watching it slide from the bed into a clump on the floor.

She sees now the track of muddy footprints she’s made across the cream rug. The damage is done, so she lies down, right in the middle of the bed, letting her feet mess the counterpane too. She is Goldilocks with the wrong-coloured hair. Who’s been eating my porridge? Who’s been sleeping in my bed?

Mr Hailey has slept in this bed, has done things with Leah in it. Viola closes her eyes and imagines him crawling across the blankets until he is there, above her, his mouth close, the scar fresh on his chin.

She could never admit it to the Eldest Girls, but she understood his charm after seeing him that night at the stones – a man who feels like a boy, a boy who is so obviously a man. She pictures herself succumbing, having him press down on top of her, slide his warm hands under the layers of her clothing. Viola slips her own hands between her legs, pulling upwards against the fabric of her pyjamas, and feels the beginnings of a shiver of pleasure.

Then Dot leaps onto her, red lead dragging, licking Viola’s face.

‘Get off!’ she squawks, shoving the dog onto the floor. ‘Get off me!’

She growls at the ceiling to keep Dot at bay, to be free of the moment. She sighs. What is she doing anyway, messing around like this? Viola swings her legs to sit on the bed’s edge and picks up a tall stoppered bottle from Leah’s night table. Mercury’s Lavender reads the handwritten label. The purple liquid inside is half-drunk. Viola opens it, sniffs its pungent floweriness, puts the bottle back.

She is wasting time, she knows it.