She had taken some money from the bag where

Cami left it for them. She would go to the shops and have her hair done. She would have it done black, like Rach's.

The cake shop was open, and Tray bought a doughnut. It had thick jam. Her dad had brought her doughnuts, and a plate of sugar, and let her roll them in the sugar until they were white. Her mom would say, "You'll get fat." But naturally Tray did not get fat, for she seldom ate anything at all.

In Lucrece, where—unknown to Tray—presumably they made you so beautiful you would be raped by a Roman, the manager came and led her to a chair. He said it did not matter there was no appointment, he would always make a place for her, she had such excellent hair it was a treat to style it. But he liked Cami's money, she knew that too. And anyway, they were empty.

Tray sat through the hairdresser's torture, which she did not mind, for two hours. And then she sat under the dryer.

She drank the Fanta they brought her.

When she looked up into the mirror, she saw with surprise what they had missed. Crystal tears fell from her eyes. They did not ruin her face, for her eye makeup did not run, and her blusher was waterproof, and she was like a doll that wept.

In the phone box, Tray inserted Cami's phonecard. She had taken it out with her, so she must have known she would need it, but not consciously.

The phone rang, and she hoped her father would answer.

If her mother answered, she would put down the receiver.

It rang a long time.

While she waited, an ice-cream van entered the street. It played its tune loudly, and Tray was afraid she would not hear properly who was on the line if the phone was answered.

Then there was her father's voice.

"Hi, Dad. It's me."

"Tray!"

"Hi, Dad."

"For Christ's sake where are you? I've been worried."

"I'm okay, Dad."

"I've been worried, Tray. You go off and get yourself in bloody bother. Where are you?"

"Just London, Dad."

"What's happened? Where in London?"

"It don't matter. I'm fine. I just… wanted to talk to you."

"You're daft, Tray, you are. You can always bloody talk to me. Why don't you come home and talk to me?"

She heard, more than his questions and sentences, the light that came on in his voice when he spoke to her. She could recall how he would grin when he came in at the door and she ran toward him, holding up some toy.

"Don't nag, Dad." The ice-cream van was closer.

"All right, all right. So long as you're okay. What you been doing?"

"Just the usual stuff."

"Bloody bikes and bloody bad rock groups."

"Bands, Dad."

"Bands. Ought to be banned."