I think of my exam results on purpose—just for the twinge of pleasure—but the more often I do it, the less I feel. It occurs to me that we’d be sitting here just the same if I’d failed—playing with our food and talking about Stella. The cat jumps onto my lap, sniffs the rice, and jumps down again. Dad pours more wine. I can’t tell if he’s reassured by what I’ve said or not.

The phone rings. “I’ll get it,” we say simultaneously, but it’s Dad who picks up—and it’s her. It’s Stella. I straighten my shoulders and wipe my sticky hands on my napkin. She’s remembered. I almost laugh out loud. Why did we doubt her? I hope Dad doesn’t tell her what grades I got; I want to tell her myself.

Dad’s mouth barely moves as he’s talking, and his eyes narrow. Oh no. I hate it when they ad-lib; I wish I could script their conversations. If he would only say, “I’m sorry I hurt your feelings,” and if she would only say, “I love you, Dad,” then everything might be all right. But they’re both as perverse as each other, and they won’t.

“So, tell me,” Dad is saying. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

I get up and wrest the phone from his hands.

“Stella?”

“Oh, hi Freya.” She sounds distracted, and I wonder if her mysterious friend is there too. “I thought it was about time I rang; I just wanted to let you know I’m OK.”

Dad opens the back door to let the cat out and follows it into the garden. I watch him walk down the path to the back fence, and maybe it’s just the odd light, but his body seems meagre and bent.

“I got straight As,” I say, but my tone is so dull that she fails to understand.

“You . . . what? Sorry, the line’s not great.”

“My exams.”

“What? Speak up.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

There’s a heat rising inside me, and I know I must damp it down but I can’t. This is what happens to Dad when he speaks to her; it’s why he can’t stick to my placatory script.

“So . . .” she says, as if it might be time to start winding up this nonconversation.

“So . . .” I echo, although I can hardly breathe. “So where the fuck are you, Stella?”

She’s surprised into silence for a second, and then she says, through a smirk, “Freya! Language!”

Is there somebody with her, stifling laughter? She—they?—wait for me to amuse them again and, ever-obliging, I do.

“Do you know what I’d wish for if I could have anything in the world?” I say.

“Oh, not this again—you can never decide. A lifetime’s supply of Maltesers?”

“No.”