Tracey gets to her feet and the look on her face makes me think she is about to curtsey. “Hi, Mrs Tillsbury, nice to meet you.”

Mother dismisses her outright, turns to me and says, “Helen, darling, you do know we have guests this evening.”

“Yes, I know and we will be up in my room all evening.”

“Fine, make sure you are.” She turns back to Martha. “The menu, Martha.”

“Let’s go up to my room,” I say and I take my plate, even though I don’t want the cake.

My mother’s ice blue eyes look at the cake, then at me as we walk past.

“Thank you for having me, Mrs Tillsbury,” Tracey says as she passes.

Mother responds with a thin smile.

I can hear her saying to Martha as we leave, “You spoil her too much, Martha. She certainly doesn’t need that cake and is that hot chocolate you are making? I don’t think so.”

*

I push open my bedroom door, then stand back, wrapping my arms around myself. At first she just wanders around, her eyes sweeping over it all. Floor to ceiling wardrobes on one wall; fairy-tale four-poster bed against the other. The floor is covered in discarded clothes, like it has been ransacked. The desk is covered in open books and novels are thrown on every surface. I ditch my plate of cake on top of a poetry anthology as she picks up a battered copy of Wuthering Heights.

“I love this book,” she says, then puts it down again reverently.

I scramble around, picking up clothes and underwear to expose the fluffy pink rug underneath.

“Excuse the mess,” I mumble.

“It’s fine, mine is much worse.”

I don’t believe her.

“You have a really lovely bedroom. It’s huge.” She goes over to the window and looks out at the sea in the distance. The glass roof of the pool house is reflecting the sun as it breaks through the rain clouds finally. Shards of white cutting through the grey. “Is that the pool house?”

“Yeah.” I walk over and open the window, letting in a sharp, salty tang of sea that flushes out the stale air in my room. “We can go down there in a bit if you want?”

She nods, turns away from the window and continues her survey of the room.

I chew on my lip, my arms automatically clasping to my waist again. She is peering at photos pinned to the board above my desk now. I can’t tell what she is thinking about all that pouting, all those pretty ponytails and pink lips.

I busy myself with opening the wardrobe and chucking the pile of clothes in quickly. I slam the doors shut on the carnage inside.

It’s getting awkward. There’s an elephant in this pretty pink room.

I go to say, “Don’t mind my—” as she says, “Are you sure—”.