‘That’s a famous one, isn’t it?’

‘Botticelli.’

‘Right.’ I tried to think of something I could say about it. ‘It’s very – unusual.’

‘I like it.’

‘She’s very lovely, isn’t she?’

‘That’s because she’s supposed to be Venus.’

‘Oh.’

‘Goddess of love.’ He ran a hand through his thick hair.

‘Yes. So what have you been sketching lately?’

He gave me a sideways look.

‘I don’t suppose you’d show me something?’

‘Like what?’

‘Anything.’

He shrugged and opened a drawer. It was stuffed full with paper and paints. He pulled out a big hard-backed black book which said ‘Rob Hall, 5b’ on the front. Then he leant back on the drawers and flicked through the pages.

‘Most of it’s rubbish…’

As he flicked, I caught a glimpse of a watercolour of hills and sky, a line drawing of a girl with long hair sitting on a stool, a pastel study of the leaves of a rubber plant – all detailed, all precise.

‘I didn’t know you’d done so much.’

‘Here’s one,’ he said, and he held out a painting of my dahlias. I recognised them immediately: perfect ‘Holland Festivals’, deep orange petals tipped with white. He’d painted the wall of our house as background. He’d caught them at their peak; they looked like perfect orbs of flame.

‘When did you do this?’

‘Ages ago.’

‘Look at that. It’s very good.’ I reached out and ran a finger along the bumpy paint.

He gave a small smile. ‘It’s OK.’

He closed the book and put it back in the drawer. Then he looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got to go, Dad. I’m meeting Luke.’

‘Oh.’ I took a breath. ‘So is Luke – courting any girl?’

I saw his face flinch, just a tiny fraction of a flinch, but a flinch nevertheless.

After a moment’s pause, he sat down heavily on the bed and put his chin in his hands. ‘Why do you want to know?’

‘I’m interested.’

He was silent.

I gazed out of the window and tried to make my voice sound unconcerned. ‘You must know, you’re his best friend.’ ‘Why is it important?’ his voice was too loud.

‘It isn’t – important. I’d just like to know.’

‘Is that what you really wanted to talk to me about?’

‘Please don’t shout.’ I sat down on the other side of the bed.

He gathered the edge of the duvet in his fist and stared at it.

‘Robert.’

When he finally looked at me his eyes were bright with anger, but I ploughed on.

‘I don’t mean to interfere. It’s just that – ’

‘Please don’t interfere again.’ He almost whispered it, twisting the corner of the duvet around his hand like a mangled bandage.

‘I’m only saying this because I don’t want you to end up – ’