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landlord lives up there.’ He pointed to red chimneys scarcely visible in a cloud of trees. ‘He’s like something you’ll find in a theme park, you know. He’s got all the kit for his playground, garters or gaiters or whatever the hell you call them, and a shooting stick and a gun room. He got it all from vacuum-packed turkeys, poor sods.’ Mick swung the car down a pot-holed lane through a tunnel of trees. ‘I never thought I’d be getting this cottage, my accent’s not right and the manager bloke didn’t like me, but when I offered six months’ rent in cash he handed the lease right over. He didn’t even want to see my references.’
    They were in a clearing now, stopping in front of Hansel and Gretel’s house. Christy had never seen a picture of it, her childhood fairy-tale book had no illustrations, but Mick’s cottage was the real-life version of the image she had always carried. The lopsided porch staggered under a rose blooming yellow, its branches roaming up and scratching at diamond-paned windows; the roof zig-zagged over the two little gables and was crowned by a twistedchimney. Christy had imagined that Mick would live somewhere macho, a tower block or an old warehouse or above a night-club. Even though he had said it was remote, even though there were no macho buildings in Lynton, she had never imagined it could be such a cliché of prettiness.
    Mick sprang to open the door for her, faking courtliness with a bow as she went past him into the house.
    â€˜Welcome to Launderer’s Cottage. It used to be called Laundry Cottage but I changed the name, it seemed more my sort of scene.’
    The dog Hotspur lay flat before a dead fire thumping his tail but not moving until Mick called him. Newspapers and maps fanned across the table and a collage of photographs covered one wall. Staring everywhere, absorbing Mick’s world, Christy was half curious, half afraid. Her other boyfriends had always lived at home with their parents in houses like her childhood home, or in bedsits in Lynton. Frank didn’t like those ones. She had never been with a man to his own house before. Mick’s belongings crowded the low room, books in swerving piles, records sliding out of their corner, pictures scattered on the mantelpiece and hung high on the wall where old nails gouged the plaster. Behind the door coats filled the log basket and trailed back into the passage towards another door. A sofa drooped in front of the fire and beside it a deep armchair. There was no other furniture save the table in the window. Hotspur bounced like a Yo-Yo at Mick’s side, yapping delight; Christy was hardly breathing, unable to think of anything at all to say.
    â€˜I’d better feed this dog.’ Mick went through into the kitchen.
    Christy scanned the photographs, fast at first to see if there was one of her in his collection. She found herself at one end, pale and sulky in Maisie’s flat; her arms were crossed and her mouth curved down at one end. She did not look glamorous or beautiful. But at least there was a picture of her. The others were landscapes, black-and-white and harsh. Christy didn’t much like them, but she studied each one slowly, willing herself to be moved by the shadows cast on to lonely countryside.
    Sounds of dog feeding clattered from the kitchen, Mick murmuring blandishments to Hotspur who whined a crescendo of hunger. The long evening light melted through the window, freckled where it had passed leaves silhouetted against the sun. Leaves and more leaves, nothing else for miles. Christy thought of the long track Mick had driven her down. Even the chimneys of the landlord’s house were far away, back towards the road and the world. She was alone with Mick and his belongings. What was she supposed to do now?
    She tried sitting down, perching on the edge of the sofa. The clatter of the dog’s plate in the kitchen made her start and