‘It’s cool. I can go.’ Matty had been to the shop a couple more times, for Skittles and an extra shot of self-esteem. The blond girl had been there just the once. She’d been wearing a T-shirt that slid off one shoulder, coral-coloured bra strap on show. She made Matty feel better, made the angular gestures and the hint of rebel come, River Phoenix in My Own Private Idaho, but some sweetness, too.

‘No, I’ll come with you,’ Brigid said, picking up her handbag. ‘I need a few things.’

The blond cashier was there and wearing a Santa hat.

‘Nice look,’ Matty said.

She glanced upwards, eyebrows meeting the white-furred rim, as if she’d forgotten it was there. ‘Oh.’ An eye-roll. ‘You know, Merry Christmas and all that.’ There was that gap in her teeth.

‘Suits you. You should wear it all the time.’ Matty pointed past her shoulder.

‘I remember,’ she said, turning round. ‘Ten Marlboro Lights.’

Brigid had come up, putting a bag of potatoes and shampoo on the counter. Gave Matty a strange look. ‘Have you been smoking?’

‘Just the odd one.’

‘It’s not good for your – you know.’

‘I know.’ Matty took the carrier bag from the girl, who’d been pretending not to listen. ‘I can do that.’

They packed the bag together, alternating, the girl biting her lip, trying not to smile as Brigid paid.

Matty crushed up a grin. ‘See you.’ The slightest wink.

‘See you later,’ the girl said, before adjusting her hat. ‘Be good for Santa.’

Night fell quickly. The air in the house felt muggy, close. Brigid made more noise than usual after dinner, the sounds of the cupboards and pans harsh. The feeling of a thunderstorm, brewing somewhere.

‘Is something wrong?’ Matty knew, really.

‘No. Nothing.’ Unfussy, shorn of feeling.

Nothing. What girls – and some boys – said when they meant plenty.

Matty stood in the doorway to the living room. A little wedge of stubbornness. ‘Do you want me to go now?’

‘What? No. I don’t want you to go.’ Three plates made a bright clatter. ‘I want you to – I—’ She turned, and there was the tiniest, measured breath from her nose, as if much more was hurling itself about behind her lungs, waiting to be siphoned out. ‘I thought you liked me.’ There was an equal emphasis on both of the last words, a slight cracking. Self-hate. Embarrassment.

‘I do like you.’

‘Not like that. I thought …’ Brigid clutched both of her elbows and looked at her spice rack as if she wanted to upend it. ‘I thought that was why you were staying. Partly.’ She shook her head, her own internal tussle.

It felt like it had been coming to this. There was almost relief mixed in with exasperation, and a sense of obligation. At least she admitted it. And there was something that could be done about it.