Before either of us could say anything, though, the phone flew out of my hand. It made a dull crack as it hit the floor, and the ceiling light came on.

Cory wrapped his arms around me from behind and buried his face against my neck. “Hello,” he said. His breath was damp and I could feel the edges of his teeth on my skin. “Hello” wasn’t a weak nonword, the way it looks on the page, but jagged and full of intent.

I couldn’t see where my phone had gone, but I knew the connection with Tom had been lost. I pictured him standing in his study, staring at his own blank screen, wondering why I’d left him so abruptly.

The rain was still hammering on the roof but there was a silence beyond it, peculiar to the little attic room, which meant that Cory and I were alone.

August 2009

Dad buys a Chinese takeaway to celebrate my A level results, but he accidentally orders Stella’s favourite—satay prawns—instead of mine—lemon chicken—and although I insist it’s fine, somehow it isn’t.

While we’re eating, we try to talk about me—my exam results, my university place, my long-term plans—but the conversation always finds its way back to Stella. She’s been gone for eight and a half weeks now.

“At least she occasionally phones,” I observe, chasing a prawn around the foil carton with my chopsticks. “And we know she’s staying with a friend this time. And after all, Dad, she is an adult . . .”

My father stops pretending to eat and puts his chopsticks down. He refrains from pointing out that it’s ages since she last phoned, or that it’s far from clear whether she really is with a “friend,” or that, yes, she may be twenty-one years old, but she is also Stella.

I give up too, and sit back with a sigh. Every so often I remember my A level results with a guilty twinge of pleasure. It’s getting late, and I can hear birdsong through the open window. Light is seeping from the lilac sky, and the houses at the other end of the garden are turning into silhouettes. I don’t find it gloomy but Dad obviously does, because he reaches for the wall switch, and suddenly the view is replaced by the kitchen light, reflected twice in the double glazing.

“The whole thing’s my fault, isn’t it?” Dad takes his glasses off and wipes his weary eyes. “You think it’s my fault. I should have told her she was destined to be the finest sculptor the world has ever known.”

“No!” I protest, but I can’t look at him. I start tidying spilt rice from the tabletop, grain by grain. “You were just being yourself; you have to be able to speak your mind.”