Jago remained on the ward. The knife hadn’t ruptured any vital organs, though only missed his spleen by quarter of an inch. He was lucky, they said. A miracle, they said. Every night I went to bed and expected to wake up to the news he’d died. Without him the house was unbearable. Mum worried continuously, chewing her fingers to shreds, slamming pots and pans around in the kitchen as she muttered about that mental bitch. Granfer lay in bed, grumbling about not being able to do his jigsaw and begging for sugar. And then there was Gareth, there all the time, wherever I went. So each morning I’d pack food into my bag and set off down to Cape Cornwall. I’d walk with my face set, feet trudging the path without pause, and when I got to the rock, I’d settle down on my patch of salty grass, the old purple chocolate wrapper long-since blown away, and press the binoculars to my face.

The incident was pronounced accidental by the police. It wasn’t pre-meditated; if Jago hadn’t tried to be the hero nothing would have happened. Eleanor was full of remorse and felt desperate at the situation. The extravagant basket of fruit the Davenports sent to the hospital would have fed the whole of St Just. The gift made Mum even angrier and if I hadn’t stopped her she’d have chucked the whole thing in the bin untouched. The fruit was delicious, though. I peeled an apple and cut it into eighths then offered her a slice. But she wouldn’t touch it. Wouldn’t even look at it.

Two weeks afterwards I sat on the cliff as usual. Dusk was falling in a glorious sunset. The sky, luminous with bright pinks and oranges, was reflected in the windows of The Cliff House as if it were ablaze inside. The ache from my exile thrummed in my stomach. It was as if I’d been cast out of Eden and there was nothing I could do to get myself back.

Eleanor sat on the terrace, still beautiful of course, but stripped of fine clothes and shiny silken hair she looked dishevelled and uncared for as she smoked cigarettes and stared at nothing. I could see Max and Edie inside. They stood in front of the living room window. The light was on and through the binoculars I could see them perfectly. They were talking. Her head hung low. She looked younger and had lost weight, which I didn’t think was possible. Her black clothes and make-up and jewellery were gone. Instead she wore jeans and a light blue denim jacket. Her hair was pulled back into a short ponytail, an inch of brown hair visible at the roots. Every now and then she would shake or nod her head, her mouth downturned at the edges, eyes blinking slowly.