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him?”
    Copeland. Helen thinks. It certainly rings a bel .
    “Got a daughter,” adds Mark. “Blond girl. Eve, I think.”
    “Oh yes. Clara’s friends with her. Only met her once but she seems lovely. A bright girl.”
    “Wel , anyway, her dad’s a strange case. Alcoholic, I reckon. Used to be in the police. Criminal Investigation Department or something. But you wouldn’t believe it to look at him. He’s been out of work and decided to move from Manchester to here. Makes absolutely no sense, but if he wants to rent a flat from me I’m not going to stop him. Trouble is, he doesn’t have any money. He’s only paid me his deposit and that’s it. He’s been in there two months now and I haven’t had anything off him.”
    “Oh dear, but the poor man,” says Helen, with genuine sympathy. “He’s obviously had something happen to him.”
    “That’s what I said,” says Lorna.
    Mark rol s his eyes. “I’m not running a charity. I’ve told him, if I don’t have the money in a week it’s curtains. You can’t get sentimental about these things, Helen. I’m a businessman. Anyway, he told me not to worry. He’s got a new job.” Mark smirks in such a way that even Helen is wondering why she invited the Felts around. “A garbageman . From the CID to a garbageman. I don’t think I’l be going to him for career advice.”
    Helen remembers the garbageman rummaging through her rubbish this morning.
    Her husband, though, hasn’t made any connection. He hasn’t heard the reference to the garbageman because it coincided with something pressing against his foot. And now his heart is racing because he realizes it is Lorna. Her foot. An accident, he assumes. But then it stays there, her foot against his foot, and even rubs against his, pressing tenderly down on the leather.
    He looks at her.
    She smiles coyly. His foot stays where it is as he thinks about the barriers between them.
    Shoe, sock, skin.
    Duty, marriage, sanity.
    He closes his eyes and tries to keep the fantasy sexual. Normal. Human. But it is a struggle, even with Vivaldi playing in the background.
    He retreats, sliding his foot slowly back under his chair, and she looks down at her empty plate.
    But the smile stays on her face.
    “It’s business,” says Mark, in love with the word. “And we’ve got an expensive year. Some big work on our house.”
    “Oh, what are you thinking of doing?” Helen asks.
    Mark clears his throat, as if about to make an announcement of national significance. “We’re thinking of extending. Upstairs. Make a fifth bedroom. Peter, I’l come round and show you the plans before we go for planning permission. There’s a risk it might shade some of your garden.”
    “I’m sure it wil be fine,” says Peter, feeling alive and dangerous al of a sudden. “For us I’d say shade’s almost a plus point.”
    Helen pinches her husband’s leg, as hard as she can manage.
    “Right,” she says, starting to clear away the plates. “Who’s for some dessert?”

    Tarantula

    It is cold out in the field, even with the fire, but no one else seems to care.
    People are dancing, drinking, smoking spliffs.
    Clara sits on the ground, staring at the impromptu bonfire a few meters in front of her, flinching at its heat and brightness as the flames lick away at the night. Even if she wasn’t il , she would have been pretty miserable for the last hour or however long it has been since Toby Felt weaseled over and started plying Eve with cheap vodka and cheaper lines. And somehow, it has worked.
    They are kissing now, and Toby’s hand is on the back of her friend’s head crawling around like a five-legged tarantula.
    Making Clara’s night even worse is Harper. For the last ten minutes he has been leaning back and gawking at Clara, with drunk and hungry eyes, making her feel even worse.
    Her stomach flips again, as if the ground is shooting downward.
    She has to go.
    She tries to conjure the energy to stand up when Eve pul s away from