‘I’ve known her a good while now. She didn’t use to be this spacy. Anything been on her mind?’

Holly shrugs. ‘Just normal stuff. School. Whatever.’

Dad waits, but Holly knows he’s not done. She dumps the bits of leek into the casserole dish. ‘What’ll I do now?’

‘Here.’ He throws her an onion. ‘I know you and your mates know Selena inside out, but sometimes those are the last people to cop that something’s wrong. A lot of problems can show up around your age – depression, whatever we’re supposed to call manic depression these days, schizophrenia. I’m not saying Selena’s got any of those’ – his hand going up, as Holly’s mouth opens – ‘but if something’s up with her, even something minor, now’s the time to get it sorted.’

The balls of Holly’s feet are digging into the floor tiles. ‘Selena’s not schizophrenic. She daydreams. Just because she’s not some stupid cliché teenager who goes around screaming about Jedward all the time doesn’t mean she’s abnormal.’

Dad’s eyes are very blue and very level. It’s the levelness that has Holly’s heart banging in her throat. He thinks this is serious.

He says, ‘You know me better than that, sweetheart. I’m not saying she has to be Little Miss Perky Cheerleader. I’m just saying she seems a lot less on the ball than she did this time last year. And if she’s got a problem and it doesn’t get treated fast, it could do a pretty serious number on her life. Yous are going to be heading out into the big wide world before you know it. You don’t want to be running around out there with an untreated mental illness. That’s how lives end up banjaxed.’

Holly feels a new kind of real all around her, pressing in. It squeezes her chest, makes it hard to breathe.

She says, ‘Selena’s fine. All she needs is for people to leave her alone and quit annoying her. OK? Can you please do that?’

After a moment Dad says, ‘Fair enough. Like I said, you know her better than I do, and I know yous lot take good care of each other. Just keep an eye on her. That’s all I’m saying.’

A key rattling in the front door, impatient, and then a rush of cool rain-flavoured air. ‘Frank? Holly?’

‘Hi,’ Holly and Dad call.

The door slams and Mum blows into the kitchen. ‘My God,’ she says, flopping back against the wall. Her fair hair is coming out of its bun and she looks different, flushed and loosened, not like cool good-posture Mum at all. ‘That was strange.’

‘Are you locked?’ Dad asks, grinning at her. ‘And me at home looking after your child, slaving over a hot cooker—’