‘How d’you know they aren’t just saving it for something special?’

‘I thought of that. I reckon if they were, they’d not have opened it at all.’

He couldn’t really fault her logic. ‘Nah, Joy. It’s not worth it. I’d prefer a cup of cocoa.’

‘Cocoa, he says. Cocoa!’ She was laughing at him now.

‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘You’re eighteen, that’s what. Come on, mouse, we never got to celebrate together on your birthday, did we?’

‘No, but –’

‘It’ll be all right. They won’t find out, and if they do, blame me.’

‘I’d never do that.’

‘Well, it’s not as though they’re going to mind. They left us here. They haven’t asked somebody round to watch us, have they? And they did say make yourselves at home. They’ve said that from the start.’

Something had got into her. Here they were, alone for the first time – entrusted by the Mayhoods with their home, their practice, their belongings – and she was trying to take it as her opportunity to roam about in places where she had no business being. Only Joyce could turn a few hours’ peace into an aggravation. ‘Can’t you leave it?’ he said. It came out with added desperation. ‘You’ll get us into bother.’

‘Jesus. You’re no fun.’ She levered herself upright, looked at him with an expression that he knew spelled trouble, all her features still except her mouth, which danced a little at the edges. ‘If you won’t have a drink with me, I’m going to have a nice, long bath.’

‘Do what you like.’

She climbed down, jumping the last rung, and cocked her head at him. There was an attitude about her. Smirky. Teasing. Secretive. The Joy of the old days in Borough Green. He wasn’t pleased to see it.

As she walked out, down the hall, across the landing – he could hear the moaning floorboards all the way – he straightened out the bedspread, fluffed his pillow and restored the ribbon in The Stones of Venice to the page he’d left it on (before she’d found the book left open on his desk and riffled through it, saying, ‘Hardly any illustrations in this one’). An icy draught came in as he pulled up the sash. He tied a jumper round his shoulders, lit the final ciggie in his packet. The moon had put a silver polish on the clouds. He really had a hankering for cocoa, but he couldn’t make it very well – his sister had a special way of doing it, whisking up evaporated milk on a low heat for sweetness, and no lumps or skin on top.