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builders saying, ‘I hear you’ve got some excess moisture that wants seeing to’? Electricians offering their services: ‘I’ll just turn you on now’? Delivery men asking, ‘Where shall I put it, love?’ Good grief. For God’s sake, go and have a proper fling, woman. It was all very well having a gap after Patrick, but this was getting beyond a joke. She was probably technically a virgin again by now, all sealed over the way pierced ears went if you didn’t wear earrings in them.
    It was always strange returning to the parental home, immersing herself in that peculiar mixture of pleasure and frustration. There was delight in the house itself: the gleam of well-polished furniture, its quiet colour schemes, its tidiness and orderliness – so differentfrom the flat she had shared with Patrick, and from her new house with its brilliant cushions and exotic rugs, the pictures, still packed in boxes, that would line the walls, the trailing house plants that already spilled from the shelves; there was enjoyment of her mother’s cooking, one thing they shared, and of her father’s easy good humour, his guilelessness, his pleasure in seeing her.
    Irritation was never in short supply either, however. The way her parents always expected her to go and say hello to the neighbours she didn’t like, even though she was sure they were as baffled by the need for this periodic politeness as she was; the way they used wineglasses that must have been hand-blown in Lilliput so that she felt she was filling up her glass almost every minute, her hand reaching for the bottle noted by silent eyes; the way Dad was so in-furiatingly slow and fair all the time, always seeing everyone’s point of view; and, most of all, her mother’s unruffled efficiency, her air of stoic disappointment.
    Was anyone ever really a grown-up when they were with their parents, she wondered. You might think you were, but it was surely a sad piece of self-delusion. Perhaps you’d be discussing life or books or politics with them like any bunch of civilized adults of equal standing, then you’d utter one little opinion that was slightly provocative and your father would give that gentle, indulgent laugh, that little nod and smile that said ‘You will have your funny ideas, but we’ll humour you because you’re only young and you don’t know any better.’ Or your mother would purse her lips, carefully not quite concealing her disapproval: ‘It’s a shame you have that opinion. Perhaps you’ll grow out of it with time. Still, I suppose I’ve only myself to blame as I raised you.’
    Going back home, Bella felt the inevitable yet unspoken questions hanging in the air:
    Have you got another boyfriend yet? shone out at her from the ivory silk lampshade in the hall. Are you making enough of an effort? peeked at her from behind the velvet curtains. You’re running out of time, glinted at her from the silver salt-cellar. How much longer must we wait? whispered the soft carpets under her feet.
    Alessandra, Bella’s mother, was more subtle, of course, with a diploma in Reproach by Implication so that even the most innocuous topic of conversation could become a minefield, hidden dangers lurking beneath every cautious tread. Her silences seemed multifaceted, glittering with doubt, shame and splintered expectations.
    â€˜Do you remember Sarah Forbes, from the year below you?’ she had asked on Bella’s previous visit. ‘Who used to live in that house off Church Street with the fake bay window? Just married a lovely young man. She had such a pretty headdress for the wedding – and it drew attention away from her nose.’
    The subtext was elaborate, but crystal clear: She’s a year younger and she didn’t have your advantages, but even she’s managed to get married. To somebody decent. And she’s not even nice-looking. You should do better