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looked helplessly at him. Suddenly Hugh’s expression changed.
    ‘The signs are up, aren’t they?’ he said.
    ‘S-signs?’ Hugh darted out into the drive.
    ‘I might have known it! Ask her to do anything … Look, I’m sorry about this,’ said Hugh. ‘There should have been signs telling you where to go. The pool’s through there.’
    ‘Oh good,’ said Daisy, with relief. ‘And w-where should I get changed?’
    Hugh looked again at Daisy Phillips. She was a tall girl, about eighteen, he guessed, with clouds of dark hair floating down to her waist, and a pale, pale complexion. Her dark eyes flew downwards at his gaze; her hands rubbed one another anxiously; one white-espadrilledtoe nervously circled the blue and green tiles of the porch. He tried to imagine this girl changing nonchalantly amongst the other ladies of the village in the sweaty, rubbery atmosphere of the changing tent and failed.
    ‘Well,’ he said slowly, ‘quite a lot of people come already changed, so why don’t you use one of our bedrooms?’
    ‘Really? Are you sure that’s all right?’
    ‘Quite all right,’ said Hugh heartily. He felt an unaccountable need to reassure her. ‘Now,’ he said, as though to a six-year-old, ‘why don’t you pop upstairs, and when you come down, you’ll find the pool out there, through the conservatory. That way.’ He pointed down a passage. Daisy nodded. ‘And meanwhile, I’ll go and sort out the signs for the drive,’ added Hugh.
    ‘Which room should I use?’ asked Daisy, as he disappeared.
    ‘Oh, just use any old room,’ Hugh called over his shoulder. ‘Any room at all.’
    It was not Daisy’s fault that the first room she should pick on was Meredith’s. She cautiously pushed the door open, then gave a horrified, ‘Oh!’ She was looking at a large corner room, painted a deep red and dominated by a large mahogany bed. On one wall was a carved grey marble fireplace. Propped up against another was a huge gilt mirror. And in the middle was a thin, brown, sinewy woman, with long black hair, a forbidding expression and no clothes on.
    ‘Don’t you usually knock?’ she said in a casual American accent, starting to pull on a black many-strapped swimming-costume.
    ‘I’m so sorry,’ Daisy said, bright red and trembling. ‘I thought … I just …’ Her words dried up. Why hadn’t she knocked? ‘I-I was looking for somewhere to change.’
    ‘Well, how about the changing tent?’ suggestedMeredith drily. ‘That’s where you’re supposed to change.’ Daisy gaped at her.
    ‘He didn’t say …’ she began. ‘He told me … to come upstairs.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Mr …’ Daisy broke off. She didn’t know his name; or did she? Had Mrs Mold told her? Was it Devenish, like the house?
    ‘Look, never mind,’ said Meredith abruptly. ‘Since you’re here, you can help me get into this thing. See these straps? I can’t get them right.’
    Cautiously, Daisy advanced towards Meredith. A web of interlaced black Lycra straps lay untidily across her back.
    ‘Just yank them into place,’ instructed Meredith. Daisy put up her hand awkwardly towards Meredith’s back. She pulled one of the straps downwards and another upwards. ‘I have a picture of it somewhere,’ said Meredith. ‘That might help.’ She strode over to a small Victorian wash-stand in the corner of the room, piled with papers, magazines and books. ‘Here!’ She tossed a glossy magazine at Daisy, who, startled, dropped it on the floor.
    ‘Butter-fingers,’ said Meredith, coming over. She caught a glimpse of herself in the big gilt mirror as she passed. ‘I guess it looks OK now.’ She shook back her hair and looked at Daisy with glinting green eyes.
    ‘So,’ she said casually, ‘what’s your name? And what do you do? Nothing that needs co-ordination, I hope?’
    ‘My name’s Daisy Phillips,’ said Daisy, blushing awkwardly. ‘And I …’ She stopped as a sound made Meredith’s head rise suddenly. From outside