Cory was humming under his breath—a lilting tune that might have been a lullaby, although I didn’t recognise it. Occasionally he stopped humming and spoke. I couldn’t catch what he said, but his tone was indescribably gentle, like a mother talking to her baby in the middle of the night when she’s trying not to wake the rest of the house.

I heaved the window up another inch. This room needed air. The candles had started spreading their sickly scent, and the atmosphere was as heavily floral as a funeral.

“It’s all right,” he half whispered, half sang. “It’s only us. It’s only me and Freya.”

I glanced round. Cory had swung his legs onto the bed, and he was sitting propped up on the pillows, holding his mother in his arms. I wondered if she was really asleep; somehow I preferred to think she was.

September 2008

The Wingate Gallery is calling this an autumn exhibition, but Stella and I discussed it on the way here and we agree it’s still summer. Stella’s shoulders are pink with residual sunburn, after all, and I’ve got Norfolk sand in the seams of my sandals.

Stella has begun her course at art college, I’ve started my last year at school, and we’re happy tonight. We chat nonstop. We agree that the goat cheese thingummies are fabulous; that Stella’s shoes are too squeaky for these wooden floors; that we adore the drawings of Augustus John. Stella sits down and slips her shoes off, while I keep a lookout for gallery attendants. Are there any rules against bare feet at exhibition openings? We’re not sure.

I only glimpse the woman briefly, from the back, while I’m waiting. It’s probably the red hair that catches my eye, although hers is a shade darker than ours and slickly pulled back into an elaborate “do.” She walks like a ballet dancer, lithe and erect, and, as she crosses the gallery floor, groups of people part to let her through. After she’s gone they follow her with their eyes and only gradually resume their conversations. Despite the warmth of the evening, the woman is wearing a fur shrug over her black dress, and I bet you it’s real fur.

“I recognise her,” says Stella, as we resume our stroll. “I’m sure I saw her in college a couple of weeks ago . . . Yes, I did. She was at the freshers’ welcome party.”

“She doesn’t look much like a fresher,” I say. “Or a tutor, for that matter.”

“No.” Stella has remembered now. “No, she was dropping off her son—he’s in my year—and the principal invited her to stay, so she did, but she wouldn’t stay for long and she wouldn’t have a drink.”