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one hand pulling at the gap in her gown, briefly exposing the dark vein which ran across the top of her breasts. Her nails were painted a dull glittery green. You know you are not allowed outside, she murmured into the cat’s head. It mewed in complaint and struggled free. Mrs Hayne nudged the cat inside with her bare foot and turned away into the house. Genie took this as an invitation to follow her.
    The drawing room had been redecorated since Genie had last seen it. The walls were now dark and glossy, like holly leaves. Eloise’s mother sat down and gestured for Genie to do the same. Genie complimented Bel Gazou on having aged so well. She was told in almost admonishing tones that this was in fact Bel Gazou the second, and when Genie asked if Bel Gazou was in that case the daughter of Bel Gazou the first she was told no, this Bel Gazou had been bought from a breeder, Bel Gazou the first being unable to have kittens.
    The vet said she was not one of nature’s mothers.
    Ah, yes, said Genie, remembering the time she had come to stay with Eloise one summer, when Mrs Hayne was away.
    I am not really dressed for visitors.
    I won’t keep you.
    Genie explained that she had rung Eloise several times but received no response. She had left messages at this number too. Eloise’s mother blamed the cleaner, a Polish girl who was always deleting messages then not passing them on, apparently. But in any case Eloise was no longer living here. She was in East London now, living in one of her father’s properties. She was working for him too. Eloise’s mother gave a quick cat-like yawn and asked if she might speak plainly.
    If she’s not answering I can only assume she doesn’t want to speak to you. I wouldn’t take that personally: you know how messy things got with Paul, how ill she got, and so on. It’s been over a year now. I’m sure she just wants to put all that behind her. And you must remind her so much of him and their time together.
    Eloise’s mother still dyed her hair that same shade of red, Genie noted, as she followed her to the front door. The same shade Eloise dyed hers. This had always made Genie feel uneasy. As though Eloise’s mother was overstating her claim to be just that. It had made Genie uneasy long before she’d even known Eloise was adopted.
     
    Genie had never been to Canary Wharf before. The DLR turned on a section of elevated track and a crop of buildings surged up, all of the same green-grey glass. They looked like the crystalline stalagmites in Superman’s secret cave. The company’s offices were high up in one of the stalagmites. Genie felt increasingly claustrophobic the closer she got: walking first into the atrium, then up into the lift suite where she was shown into the lift itself, then through a maze ofwindowless corridors – the whole place artificially lit and climate-controlled – until she was so far removed from the outside world, she could have been underground. But instead, here she was hundreds of feet up in the air. It all looked so – so – professional. Just like Eloise herself, she thought, peering through the internal window of her office, struck by how much she’d changed – the hair, the clothes, the poise. An act of camouflage. What had happened to the half-feral thing she’d been when she was with Paul?
    As Genie was shown in, Eloise froze, then smiled ruefully, stretching out across the desk in a kind of horizontal yawn, a gesture of the old Eloise, at odds with the suit and the sleekness.
    Genie, angered by this nonchalance, felt unable to look at her and moved to the window. She could almost see clouds below as she looked out, and now Eloise was beside her, telling her that the glass was bomb-proof and that the windows couldn’t be opened. She tapped the steel window-frames . Then Genie noticed the fingernails, long and red and glossy. She was almost fooled. But the nails were fake, she noticed. Perhaps, underneath, Eloise’s nails were still bitten.
    You