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appearing like a genie from the other side of the boxes. Helen shrieked in spite of herself, and followed Pippa at a run down the side of the house.
    It was shadowy inside, dusty glass obscuring what sunlight there was on this side. There was an old-fashioned sink, square and white, a wooden draining board piled high with plates. One wall was taken up with a sideboard, the shelves stacked with oddities. A line of teapots. A small gold statue of a seated figure holding out multiple arms in a fan shape. Bottles layered over with swirls of candlewax.
    Pippa tugged at her arm. ‘We’re making real pizza. I’m having the one with peppers. Seth brought the olives back from Spain.’
    Helen’s eyes were beginning to adjust to the change of light. Jars and boxes crowded every surface and Will was sprawled on the floor, building a complicated structure around the table legs. She tried to take everything in. Vintage tins balanced in a row along a narrow shelf, next to a rusted sign for soap. On the opposite wall, an embroidered panel glowed, what light there was reflected from hundreds of circular mirrors sewn into it. A stack of books were ready to topple at one end of the table, and she could see a pan of something involving tomatoes bubbling on the stove. Their heady, sharp smell filled the space around her. Seth came in from behind her and crossed to the other side, disappearing behind the printed fabric curtain which hung in the doorway. Victoria appeared immediately after, as if she was swapping with him, stopping at the far end of the table and not seeming to notice Helen’s presence. She opened a jar, scooped something out and popped it into her mouth. Then she held it out.
    ‘Olive?’
    Helen had never tried an olive before. It was firmer than she’d expected, with green skin that didn’t give under the pressure of her fingers. She nibbled a tiny bit from the end, expecting the sourness of an unripe plum. It tasted of salt, though, followed by a not unpleasant taste, as if she was nibbling on the end of a grass stalk. She couldn’t decide if she liked it or not, but it seemed rude not to finish so she carried on, scraping fragments away from the stone with the edge of her front teeth.
    The jar was nearly empty. Victoria angled it to get at the last few, offering them to Helen again. This time she shook her head. Victoria tipped them all into her own mouth and threw the spoon across the table. As it clattered into the sink, she spoke through the mouthful of olives:
    ‘Let’s go upstairs. The dough won’t be ready for ages.’
    Helen stood in the doorway, wondering where she was supposed to go. There were clothes everywhere, in silted heaps on the floor and spilling out of drawers in tangled chaos. Something that could have been a chair stood by the window, but she felt shy about pushing stuff off to uncover it. Victoria showed no signs of unease. She flopped on to the bed, wriggling herself more comfortably into the folds of the thrown-back blankets.
    ‘Come on, sit down.’ She gestured to the other end of the bed.
    Helen perched on the edge. ‘Should I take my shoes off?’
    Victoria looked down at her own faded baseball boots, crossed in front of her on the bed sheets. She shrugged. ‘If you want to.’
    ‘But what if your mum … I mean …’
    Victoria made a sound that was almost a laugh.
    ‘Believe me, she’d be the last person to notice.’
    Helen took her shoes off anyway.
    The walls of the room had been painted a streaky pale purple, and were covered in an overlapping patchwork of posters: classic movie adverts, pop groups and arty prints. The smell of new paint hung in the air. An image of her own room – neat and pink, with no pinholes allowed in the wallpaper – went across Helen’s mind. It wasn’t as if her mother ever saw it now anyway, so why did she still keep it so tidy? She felt like going home and tearing big chunks out of the walls.
    ‘Where do you get your posters from?’ She pushed