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long honey-coloured hair, often braided into French plaits, and their limbs so beautifully formed. They are perfect to me in every way.
    ‘By the way, Mum called this morning,’ Nick tells me quietly, outside their bedroom.
    ‘Good. I’ve been worried about her.’ Our mother lives in Perth with Patrick, a wine merchant. She moved to Australia after Hannah was born. Nick was quite happy to see her go because he’s never forgiven her. I felt differently, though I found it hard to say that I didn’t want her to leave. Dad didn’t seem surprised; he had known about Patrick some time before us.
    ‘How was she?’ I ask.
    ‘Good. Happy,’ he replies simply. He looks at his watch. ‘Sorry, Gilly,’ he says, heading back to his study. ‘Work’s awful at the moment, the company’s letting so many people go and if I don’t finish this case . . .’
    ‘Nick, you’re tired. Can’t it wait till tomorrow?’ I gently suggest, as I hear Nancy clearing up the supper downstairs.
    He nods, exhausted. ‘You’re right. I’ll be down in one sec,’ he promises.
    Alone, I join Nancy back in the kitchen, grabbing a drying-up cloth.
    Lying in bed, unable to sleep, I think about Mum. Sometimes I miss her and wish things had turned out differently. Occasionally I find myself asking what would have happened if Dad could have forgiven her all those years ago when she had turned up on our doorstep. Or what might have been if I had decided to live with Mum, not Dad, when they divorced.
    I think about tonight. When I was helping Nancy clear up the supper, she apologized if she had been insensitive, saying that at the end of the day all she wants is for me to be happy. ‘Me too,’ I’d said, thanking her. ‘But, Nance, this time it’s got to be right. I can’t get hurt again.’
    Like a horse and jockey in a showjumping contest, Nancy and I were doing so well until we collapsed at the last fence. Nancy said I mustn’t forget the problems Mum had with Megan. ‘I was reading the stats on women of a certain age, and the risk of having a child that’s . . .’
    ‘Nancy, I’d keep it!’ And on that note I left.
    I pick up the silver-framed photograph of Megan by my bedside. She had a round soft face similar to Matilda’s, glowing skin and great big eyes that smiled. Nick doesn’t like talking about her. He has chosen to shut off that part of his life, like closing a half-finished book and never going back. Yet I think of her often, especially at night.
    Slowly I drift off to sleep.

6
     
    December 1984
    Nick and I are watching Eastenders with our babysitter Lisa, bowls of spaghetti on our laps. Normally we’re not allowed to watch it. Dad took Mum to the hospital this morning. I heard this groan, followed by, ‘Oh my God, it’s happening!’ I rushed out onto the landing to see what was going on. Nicholas didn’t wake up.
    ‘Mum?’ I called out, scared.
    ‘Back to your room!’ Dad instructed. Seconds later he was at my bedside, reassuring me that Lisa would be coming over any moment to look after Nick and me and take us to school. ‘Everything’s going to be fine,’ he said. I could tell that he was excited. When they left, I shut my eyes and dreamed about having a baby sister. I wanted to plait her hair and paint her nails.
    I look over to Lisa, long legs curled up on the sofa. She’s nineteen and has golden-coloured hair, dead straight like a Roman road. Each night I pray for hair like hers, but in the morning I’m the same old Gilly with grey eyes which sometimes look dark blue. Mum tells me I’m lucky to have dark hair and magic eyes that change colour according to what I’m wearing. ‘You’re like a chameleon,’ she says and then goes on to tell me I should never want to be anyone else, but be proud of who I am and walk to the beat of my own drum, whatever that means.
    Lisa often babysits Nick and me. When we were much younger (we’re nearly eight now) Mum and Dad used to go on ‘date nights’. I