‘Yes, but Wilkes is a moron.’

‘He’s not a moron! He’s a humanitarian!’

‘Of course he is, dear,’ said Beverley. ‘But you might tell the humanitarian that there are plenty of Fairtrade deodorants on the market if he’d like to give one a try.’

‘You say that you live for poetry,’ said George. ‘Fine. Then tell me this. Who’s your favourite poet?’

Elizabeth thought about it for quite some time. The kitchen clock’s second hand could be heard moving around the dial, sounding almost embarrassed to be the focus of so much attention. ‘Emily Dickinson,’ she said eventually. ‘Oh my God, I love Emily Dickinson.’

‘Every sixth-former throwing up her lunch and cutting her arms with a compass says she loves Emily Dickinson,’ said Beverley with a sigh. ‘So unoriginal.’

‘Quote for me one of her poems, any of her poems,’ said George. ‘Do that and I will write you out a cheque for a thousand pounds right now.’

‘Oh, it’s all about memory, is it?’ she asked. ‘It’s all about forcing beautiful words into my head and then reciting them back to you like a parrot?’

‘Ten thousand pounds,’ said George, upping the ante. ‘A hundred thousand. But my offer expires in three minutes, so it’s up to you.’

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I’ll do it.’ She paused for a moment, then stood up, closed her eyes, and adopted a tragic voice while extending both her palms out to her parents in the manner of a statue of the Virgin Mary, or perhaps the Little Matchgirl, while saying the following:

‘When Death arrived – I was not home –

I’d gone to town – to buy some socks –

He rang the bell – He called my name –

But that’s just Death – He never knocks –’

‘That’s not Emily Dickinson,’ said George, rolling his eyes. ‘That’s just something you made up on the spur of the moment. You’re not getting a penny out of me for that.’

‘Yes, but at least it proves that I’m a poet,’ she said. ‘And you can keep your money, I don’t want it. God, I hate capitalists!’

‘Says the girl who lives in a multimillion-pound house in Belgravia,’ remarked Beverley. ‘Speaking as a mother, I wonder that you can bear to stay here at all with such high principles. If you really wanted to show us, I suppose you could always move out and find a place of your own, like most other girls your age do.’

‘If you want me to move out, you only have to say so.’

‘We want you to move out,’ said George.

‘So you’re making me homeless?’

‘Well, it’s not as if you don’t have friends among that community, is it?’ asked Beverley.

‘We’re not making you homeless,’ said George, standing up and putting an arm around his daughter’s shoulders. ‘You can stay here as long as you like, you know that. But both your mother and I think it would be good for your personal development if you got a job. Call it a favour to us.’