“Want me to come and help you?” said Charlie.

“There really isn’t room for two up there, sweetie,” said Fee. “Why don’t you stay down here with us instead, and tell Sophie more about the flat.”

“Yes, do that,” said Lulu. “Tell her all about the flat. Don’t forget the rule that anyone with blond hair has to clean the toilet every Saturday morning.”

It was all very well, she thought, trudging up the creaking stairs of the old house that led to the attic, for Mom to sing the joys of sisterhood from afar—Fee had no idea what it was really like to have sisters. Lulu was a middle child, and there were times when she felt the burden of this keenly. For all her childhood, it had seemed, whatever she had achieved, Emma had achieved earlier and, usually, accomplished better; and when Lulu herself had been only three years old, along had come Sophie, always younger, always more charming, helping herself without thought or question to everything from Lulu’s dolls to her clothes (because, whatever Sophie might say now, there had been many years when she had been less scornful of her sister’s dress sense) to their mother’s attention. And even now that they had all reached adulthood, the pattern seemed to continue. Emma’s life, with career and marriage plans so neatly settled into place, stood in constant reproachful contrast to Lulu’s day-today scrabbled existence; meanwhile, here was Sophie quite literally moving in on Lulu’s life, invited, no less, by Lulu’s best friend. Fee should try living with real sisters instead of weaving pretty ideas about them, Lulu thought, not for the first time, and see how she liked it.

The truth was that now, two years out of college, Lulu was finding adulthood more than a little difficult. For one thing, there was the issue of her career. She was sure—and had remained sure in the face of suggestions from many of her professors at university—that the world of scientific research was not for her, but the question now remained of just what sort of professional world was. Too quirky and outspoken to fit into the conventional office setup that suited Emma so well, and yet without the burning propulsion towards one particular goal that inflamed Sophie, she found herself, at nearly twenty-five, a little alarmingly lacking in professional direction. In vain had her parents suggested one further qualification after another—she lacked the patience for teaching, she said, or the administrative ability for social work, and law would be yet another series of the dry facts of which she had had sufficient while studying biochemistry. (To Emma’s suggestion of public relations, and Sophie’s of fashion modeling, she had returned every ounce of the disdain she felt each had merited.) Yet she could not drift aimlessly forever, nor could she stay forever in Charlie’s flat, making herself useful by cooking meals and changing lightbulbs. It was time to settle seriously in to adult life—but how or where she was supposed to find a life to settle in to, Lulu had no idea.