On the table was an ashtray with a number of cigarette ends pressed into it. Some – but not all – had a kiss of lipstick in the same shade of maroon that stained her lips. A couple had the small telltale tube which was torn from the packet of cigarette papers to form a roach. I was pretty certain this meant they’d been smoking ‘gear’ as Jago called it. It struck me that Max and Eleanor might not be that happy to know Jago had been using marijuana at their house, let alone sharing it with their daughter. For a brief moment I considered telling Eleanor and pictured Jago being marched away from the house so I didn’t have to share it, but I didn’t allow that nasty thought to linger long in my head.

Edie sat with both feet on the table. She ran a hand through her hair then glanced down at my brother who was concentrating on slapping white paint on to sanded ironwork.

‘It turns out your brother and I have exactly the same taste in music,’ she said. ‘And – oh my God – he plays the guitar!’

I furrowed my brow and looked over at him. ‘No, you don’t. Not really. It’s not like you’ve had lessons or anything.’

‘It’s not that hard,’ he said, pointedly avoiding my eyes. ‘I bought a book of chords from the second-hand shop.’

‘I’d love to play an instrument,’ Edie said. ‘Eleanor wanted me to play the harp but, seriously, what good is that to anybody? And teaching yourself is way cooler than having lessons. Hendrix and Bowie both learnt that way.’

Hendrix and Bowie? I smothered a laugh and cast an amused glance at Jago who had the grace to look sheepish.

‘Jay was telling me about the disused mines. The ones at Botallack?’

‘Jay?’

‘It’s what I call him. It suits him, don’t you think? Anyway, he said I’d love the mines so I thought we could walk out there. I know it would take a while, but it might be fun, we could take a few beers. What do you think?’

My heart sank. I didn’t want to go anywhere. I wanted to stay at the house. I wanted to swim and eat slices of the sweetest apple and lie with the sun on my face and my toe trailing in the inky water with the smell of coconut suntan lotion suspended in the air around me.

‘Can’t we stay here?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I want to get away from this bloody place. It’s so fucking depressing.’

Why wouldn’t she look at me while she was talking? Why was she so fascinated with watching Jago paint?