“The pool is heated.” I hear myself saying the words and I realise how flippant I am about a heated swimming pool. The sense of shame I feel is new. She’s made me aware of that, of how extravagant my life sounds compared to hers. But I didn’t ask to be born into privilege, so is it my fault? Looking from the outside into Tracey’s family home, I would rather have parents who actually took notice of me than all the money in the world, but that’s the hand I’ve been dealt. So I’ll carry on swimming in the heated pool, but I’ll include her too, so she can enjoy some of it.

It’s raining hard by the time we reach the house and we are soaked through. Martha greets us at the door with her usual warm smile.

“Hello, who’s this then? Welcome!” she says.

“Hi, Mrs Tillsbury,” Tracey says before I can introduce them.

“Oh, no, Tracey, she’s not my mother. This is Martha, our housekeeper. Martha, this is Tracey. She’s new to the school.”

Tracey flushes in embarrassment. I fling my bag down and kick off my wet shoes, leaving them lying on the floor where they land. Tracey is looking around, her body rigid as her eyes roam over the expansive front hall, the antique sideboard with its elaborate flower arrangement and gleaming parquet floor that reflects our faces back at us. The light is creating rainbows down the staircase from the towering stained glass window.

Her feet remain glued to the doormat.

Martha sweeps her in with an arm around her shoulder and is rewarded with a nervous smile from Tracey.

“Make yourself at home and let me know if you need anything. Here, give me those wet coats and throw your shoes down there where Madame has left hers. You should take those wet things off and I’ll get them dried for you.”

“Thank you, but I have to head home to get some stuff as I’m staying over tonight,” Tracey says as she pulls off her soaked trainers. She has a hole in her sock and one toe is sticking out, its nail painted a vivid red.

“I can lend you anything you need?” I say. “Maybe just phone your parents and ask them now instead of having to go out in the rain again?”

“Um, yeah, ok, thanks.” She’s still uncomfortable, her words stilted, like she’s wary of me now.

Wary of this house.

“There’s carrot cake in the kitchen,” Martha says.

“Oh, that sounds yum, thank you,” Tracey says just as I’m about to turn it down.

“Shall I make some hot chocolate to go with it? Yes, I think so – with cream and marshmallows. It’s very wet out there.” Martha heads into the kitchen.

Tracey watches her go and says to me without making eye contact, “She’s really nice.”