Mark found himself staring as he stood on the doorstep, his hands in his pockets, watching as she climbed out of the car and came towards him. Her hair lifted in the breeze, a tuft of pink spun sugar, and there was a goofiness about her as she struggled with her bag, flip-flops tripping over the gravel, laughing at her own awkwardness. Her hand felt warm and clammy when he took it in his, but her face seemed open and clear.

‘You’re very welcome to our home,’ he said after introducing himself, and she giggled at his formality and hooked the strap of her bag – a bright yellow messenger bag, the type usually seen against cycling couriers’ backs – slinging it over one shoulder.

She was small – a good head shorter than him – and when she spoke to return his greeting, he noticed the gaps between her teeth like her gums were too large for her mouth. It made her seem gauche, something endearing in the imperfection.

‘Thank you for letting me come. I am happy to be here.’

There was no evidence of the glasses she had worn in her photograph. The lack of glasses coupled with the pink hair gave the disconcerting impression that a mistake had been made – that Abi had picked up the wrong girl at the airport.

‘How was your journey?’ he asked.

‘It was okay. But I don’t like flying. It is boring, don’t you think?’

He nodded, bemused, then went to the rear of the car to fetch her luggage.

‘Where’s her suitcase?’ he asked, staring at the empty boot.

‘She didn’t bring one,’ Abi replied, the two of them speaking in hushed tones.

‘That’s all she brought?’ he asked, nodding to the messenger bag that rested against her hip.

Abi shrugged. ‘I guess she travels light.’

But Mark found himself assessing her more closely – the frayed ends of her jeans, the hoodie that was probably white once but now looked greyish with wear. The way she stared up at the house with obvious wonder and perhaps a little envy too. He knew that feeling, recognized it instantly as one who had himself grown up feeling desperate, longing to escape to something better – something normal.

Poor kid, he found himself thinking. Then he shut the boot and went inside.

In the kitchen, she clapped her hands as she looked around and exclaimed:

‘Oh wow, I love this! Everything is so modern.’

‘I suppose it is,’ Mark said, glancing up briefly as he reheated curry in a saucepan. The rice-cooker was already on.

There was something precocious about her, the type of girl who couldn’t help but draw attention to herself. The shock of her hair – a clouded tuft of candy-floss pink – she kept fingering it as she giggled, delighted with the novelty of it.

‘Everything in your house is so big, so new – everything shiny and bright. It’s a mansion.’