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languid-looking young man with satanically dark eyebrows. Laughing, he gave each of his sisters a high five, kissed Lucy and nodded to Mickey. Sophie drew Mandy forward.
    ‘Patrick, this is Mandy, from school. Her parents are away so – ’
    ‘Great. The more the merrier. Have you told her about Saturday?’
    ‘Not yet – ’
    Patrick sauntered round the table, his rangy, Levi-clad legs covering the distance effortlessly, and he held out his hand to Mandy. She took it: it was warm, dry and confident. Somehow, she didn’t want to let go, but she did, and watched as he reached out for the bottle of red wine his father had opened and casually filled himself a glass. His hair was sleek, blue-black, cleverly cut to look as if it needed cutting, with an untameable lock that fell forwards on to his eyes. He pushed it back and smiled at Mandy, and she felt her insides turn to syrup.
    ‘We’re having a charity fund-raising bash at the local hotel. I’m on the committee, for my sins, so I’ll wangle you a ticket.’
    Mandy realized that his eyebrows looked so dark because his eyes were icy-blue. She smiled back.
    ‘Thanks. But I haven’t brought anything to wear.’
    ‘I’m sure Sophie can lend you something.’
    Sophie squawked with indignation. ‘Me? I haven’t got anything for myself – only that old maroon velvet. Georgie can wear that.’
    It was Georgie’s turn to be outraged. ‘I don’t want your disgusting cast-offs – ’
    ‘Now, girls. Don’t panic. We’ll go through everything tomorrow and see what we can rustle up.’ Lucy was anxious to avert the sartorial panic that an impending social occasion always brought.
    ‘But there isn’t anything!’
    Mickey, mellowed by the wine and further softened by the knowledge that he had his whole family around him and therefore couldn’t be cornered by Patrick, came to the rescue.
    ‘I’ll take you shopping in Cheltenham tomorrow.’
    The squeals of joy gratified him. Patrick grinned at Mandy.
    ‘It doesn’t take much to make some people happy.’
    That, thought Mandy, was what made them so lucky. She could have any frock she wanted, and it had never made her happy. She had an idea what would, though, and it really was frighteningly simple. She gave herself a mental pat on the back: not only had she found the way forward tonight, but now she had the key.
    After the excitement had died down, Patrick produced a penknife from his pocket and Mandy went through the ritual of carving her initials on the table, although it was difficult to find a space. As she carefully scraped an M, followed by an S, she promised herself that one day she would rub out the last letter and replace it triumphantly with an L for Liddiard.
    Next morning, Mickey felt as if his head was in a vice and some particularly nasty rodent had crawled into his mouth and died. As he walked into the kitchen, the smell of percolating coffee made his stomach churn. What he saw at the table, however, made him forget his hangover. Mandy was sitting in one of his old shirts with the sleeves rolled up and precious little else. She was smiling at him; saying something – what was it? Mickey could hardly hear through the pounding of the blood that had rushed to his head.
    ‘I’m sorry, Mr Liddiard. I spilt hot chocolate all down my front last night and I didn’t have a spare nightie. I found this in the ironing basket. I hope you don’t mind?’
    ‘It’s only fit for the bin.’ Lucy was doing battle with the percolator, which hissed malevolently at her. To Mickey it sounded like a mighty roar. ‘I’ve been trying to make him get rid of that shirt for ages. It’s gone completely at the collar.’
    ‘Oh, you should never get rid of your favourite clothes. I always think they’re like old friends, don’t you?’ Mandy was fiddling absent-mindedly with the third button down. Mickey couldn’t look. She couldn’t possibly know the effect she was having, this woman-child, with her long legs,