Eloise followed him to Lottie’s tidy bedroom. Jack was grateful for its orderliness. He wanted Eloise to admire it. From the top drawer of the dresser he extracted a green T-shirt, pulled it on. The bed was made. He felt Eloise study it, the paisley duvet, the two bedside tables, each with its ashtray.

“My God, Len.”

“It’s all right.”

“All right is not a phrase I would use, actually,” she said. She had the accent all of the family had except him, the voice that Lottie used onstage but not at home: posh, from nowhere. Lottie’s actual accent was northern, from Manchester. That was one of the things he had learned in the past weeks. “Not any of this is all right.”

“My stuff mostly doesn’t fit me, anyhow,” he said.

“Leave it, then. Come on. We have to hurry.”

Was he just going to walk out with nothing, with nobody? He dropped to the floor and pulled the case marked WS from beneath the bed and zipped it into the duffel he’d arrived with. He’d been promised, but he didn’t want to ask; he didn’t want to be refused. He swung the duffel behind his back, and it knocked into his legs, it hurt, that’s right, everything hurt, he was built of wire and wool.

In the living room, Fiona and Lottie were sitting on the red sofa, each holding a plate with a single untouched jaffa cake. If you didn’t know, thought Jack, you would not be able to guess what the two women had in common.

“All right?” Fiona said to them. “Going?” She handed her plate to Lottie. “Good.”

“Wait,” said Jack. He turned to Lottie. “Do you think,” he said, “there’s a chance—could I get the extra rent back?”

He was worried she’d get mad. Lottie didn’t have much of a temper, but she didn’t like being contradicted. She didn’t like being asked for favors.

At this, Fiona roared.

“You charged him rent?” she said. “You’re a grown woman!”

The plates with their cakes, one in each hand, seemed a prank Fiona had played on Lottie to pin her to the sofa. Jack tried to assemble the right emotion for the moment—he might never see her again—and he rummaged through what he had: pity, gratitude, shock, love, disapproval, utter confusion. Her blond hair had been combed into a ponytail. He would never feel the lash of it again.

She said, perplexed, “Well, yes.”

Together two-thirds of Leonard Valerts’ sisters jostled Leonard Valert himself into a black cab. Where are we going? Airport. I don’t have money. Daddy’s bought you a ticket. Did he? Of course. How did you find me? Saw you on the telly! How was I?