Luke gawps over Rob’s shoulder. He’s got his blond fringe to stick up and stay in place now. He follows Rob’s eyes as they flick up at me, appraise, flick down.

‘Are you going to be an artist, then?’ I ask Rob.

‘Of course he is,’ says Luke. ‘He’s good enough.’

‘I bet that’s what your dad wants. That’ll be why he bought you those pencils.’

Rob gives a ‘huh’, but doesn’t stop sketching. His hands move across the page like they’re on wires.

‘I hope you’re not doing my nose too big.’

‘Keep still.’

I get sort of mesmerised by the whispery noise his pencil makes on the paper and I don’t say anything for a while.

‘What about you?’ he asks. ‘What are you going to be?’

‘Astronaut.’

He glances at me. Then he starts drawing again. ‘You could be an actress.’

I spit out a laugh.

‘You could,’ he says, not laughing. He looks at me with that photographing gaze. Snap. ‘If you could be bothered.’ Behind him, Luke sniggers.

‘Haven’t you finished that yet?’ I snatch the pad, turn it round, and see a careful line drawing, just like the portraits they sell in Oxford. The girl in it has massive eyes, pouty lips and a mane of hair.

‘Is that me?’

Luke looks over. ‘You’ve overdone her a bit.’

‘Perfect likeness,’ I announce.

Rob lines his pencil back up in his shiny metal box.

‘Are you coming down the farm tonight?’ Luke asks him.

‘The farm?’ I say, rearranging my silk-touch blouse.

‘Turkey plucking,’ says Rob. ‘I need the money.’

‘Your dad won’t give it to you?’ I have to smirk.

‘I can’t ask him for it.’ He looks straight at me. ‘I need it to get out. I’m leaving here. As soon as I can.’

‘Rob wants to go to London,’ says Luke.

‘We’re both going,’ says Rob. ‘To make our fortunes.’ He gives a short laugh.

‘Really?’

‘That’s the plan. Anywhere’s better than here, right?’

I flick my hair over my shoulder and nod slowly. ‘Definitely. In fact, I’m going, too.’

‘Yeah?’ says Luke, screwing up his eyes. Even his lashes are blond. His skin’s so pale it’s like you can see through it, right into the veins and muscle and bone beneath.

‘You’re going to London?’ asks Rob.

‘Of course. I’m not staying in this dump.’

‘Have you got the money?’

I look at Rob’s green eyes. There’s not a speck of brown in them. They’re clear green, like marbles. One of my primary school teachers liked to go on about people with pure green eyes. Saying they’re rare. Different. I told Dad about it once, and he said, ‘Irish, more like.’

‘Almost,’ I say. ‘I’m working on it.’