Helen tilted her head to the side, wondered what had upset her. Lydia was a very quiet, unassuming girl, so unlike her stepsister Mills in every way. There was nothing showy or loud about Lydia. She was perpetually calm, understated. The hand not wrapped around Clive was holding her phone. Helen wanted to reach out and take it from her, see what the messages had been about. But was this really her place? The evil stepmother checking up on her. Maybe she should just mention it to Hugh, let him sort it out. It was probably nothing anyway.

Helen looked around the room, taking in the fairy lights draped across the headboard of the bed, the neat desk in the corner, the pinboard covered with photos of her and her best friend, Lucy, pulling childish faces and grinning beneath cat ear filters. No pouting, posing or duck lips yet. Everything was neat and tidy, no clothes strewn on the floor or books out of place. Her school bag was at the foot of her bed and Helen reached out to open it, then changed her mind.

She retreated, closing the door gently behind her.

*

Later Helen took up a tray with a bowl of tomato soup, some buttered toast and a glass of chocolate milk. She knocked hesitantly this time, but didn’t wait for Lydia to answer before she walked in. Lydia was still on the bed, but now sitting up, surrounded by books. She shoved something aside as Helen walked in, then shuffled higher up against the pillows. Clive was still snoring, lying stretched across the bed at her feet.

“I brought you some soup and toast if you’re hungry?”

“Thanks.” Lydia looked miserable.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No, I told you. I just don’t feel well. Bad cramps.”

She didn’t meet Helen’s eyes.

“Ok, but if you want to talk, I’m here.”

Helen left the tray on the bed and turned to go, then said over her shoulder, “What’s the project about?”

“What?” Lydia’s head jerked up.

“The project? You said you have a big project to hand in. What’s it about?”

“Oh, er, it’s about families and stuff. Genealogy.”

“Well, your dad would be able to help with that.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Helen stood a little longer, hoping for something more but getting nothing. She stepped towards the door, but Lydia’s voice stopped her. “You know, I know nothing about you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You – where you’re from, who you are – or were. You just…” Curious eyes stared at Helen, trying to figure her out. “You’re just some woman who my dad met and then we all had to uproot and move in here.” Her arm swept across the extravagant bedroom with its large picture window and stone fireplace.