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there was a new device—a toy, Tim Munro called it—which trimmed their lawns in place of their old mowing service. Green and sleek, one of the outriders of the next wave of independent labour-saving machines, it buzzed through the sunshine as we sat around the swimming pool. Leo stayed lounging on a recliner as Blythe ploughed gracefully through the water. He was prohibited from swimming, but he’d stripped down to his costume, and I noticed how his ribs protruded and the bones of his shoulders stuck out in painfully sharp angles. His flesh had shrivelled almost everywhere apart from his belly, which projected like a child’s. He was starting to look alarmingly like those pictures of starving people which we then saw so much of on TV. I, conscious of poor Leo, and that my own body looked nothing like Blythe’s, or even Mum’s, had remained resolutely fully dressed.
    Climbing out from the pool, gathering a thin wrap across her shoulders, Blythe beckoned, and led me down through the garden.
    “I wanted to show you these. See, aren’t they lovely…?”
    A gardenia bush, draped with bridal white blossoms, was flourishing in this changing climate. I, though, was more conscious of the droplets sliding across the slopes of Blythe’s bikinied body as she stooped to inhale the creamy smell. One of the things I undoubtedly disliked about my brother’s girlfriend was that she was rich, but that was hardly her fault, any more than her beauty. After all, as my parents sometimes reminded me, we Maitlands scarcely lacked for much ourselves. What I really felt, I decided as we walked on, and the brief image arose, prompted by her near-nakedness, of the time when I’d disturbed her and Leo in that hot bedroom, was mostly envy, and a vague, uncomprehending disgust.
    “Leo tells me you’re progressing with the Ciaccona . He says you have an ear for Bach.”
    I smiled—unwillingly flattered, but flattered nevertheless. I knew that Leo never said anything about music unless he really meant it. “I’ve been practising a bit more.”
    “I still feel guilty about giving up with the cello.” Her fingers shredded a fern. “Not that I have given up. But I don’t think I could bear to play professionally. There’s nothing worse in life, I think, than being only just good enough. I’d end up sawing away year after year at the pop classics in some provincial orchestra. Always living in hotels. Nerves and bad hands. I love music, but not that much…That’s why I’ve decided to study law, although I suppose you think that’s a cop-out.”
    I was flattered again by the thought that Blythe should care about my judgement. “Law’s supposed to be a discipline, isn’t it? One of those things that’s—”
    “Yes, I know, well-paid,” she said, mis-finishing my sentence for me. “But I’m not doing it for the money, Roushana. I know I’ll sound like some dumb beauty queen if I say it, but I’d like to make some sort of difference.”
    Pigeons clattered. Doves cooed. In the distance, the lawnmower droned. What difference, I wondered, and to what?
    “And then my staying at home—that makes a sort of sense as well. It’s what most students have to do, and Mum and Dad are totally happy to pay for a flat. They say it’s a good investment. They wouldn’t bat an eyelid if Leo lived there as well.” She gave me a sidelong glance, sly almost, through the wet snakes of her hair. “Do you think he would?”
    I shrugged, still basking in her need to confide. “It depends on how he is. I don’t think Mum and Dad would mind, if that’s what you mean.”
    “It’s just so hard to know how things will work out. Now it’s summer, everyone’s expecting the damn virus to return. And Leo’s had to put up with such prejudice. And this ridiculous business with our trip to Venice…”
    After years of caravans and self-catering, we were going this summer to Venice, and Blythe was coming as well. But an endless series of obstacles had