downwards on the rim of the pool so that the water rushed out through her hair.
But then the shadows had begun to fall. There was a move from the cosy London house to a cold block in a Midlands university town. Her father’s new teaching job was a prestigious one, but for the bookish seven-year-old it meant permanent separation from her London friends and a hellish new school in which bullying was rife, especially of outsiders.
She was desperately lonely, but said nothing to her parents, because by then she knew from the tense silences and the slammed doors that they had their own problems. Instead, she began to withdraw into herself. Her schoolwork, once sparkling, deteriorated. She developed mysterious stomach pains which kept her at home but which refused to yield to any kind of treatment—conventional or otherwise.
When she was eleven her parents separated. The separation would conclude with their divorce. On the surface the arrangement was amicable. Her parents walked around with fixed smiles on their faces—smiles which didn’t quite reach their eyes—and made a point of telling her that nothing would change. Both, however, quickly took up with new partners.
Their daughter moved between the two households, but kept herself to herself. The mystery stomach pains persisted, further isolating her from her contemporaries. Her periods failed to materialise. One evening she punched her fist through a frosted glass door and had to be given ten stitches in her hand and wrist by a junior houseman at the Accident and Emergency department of the local hospital.
When she was thirteen, her parents took the decision to send her away to a progressive boarding school in the country which had a reputation for accommodating troubled children. Classroom attendance was optional and there was no organised sport. Instead, pupils were encouraged to undertake free-form art and theatre projects. In her second year her father’s girlfriend sent her a book for her birthday. It sat on her bedside table for a fortnight; it was not the sort of thing which interested her, by and large. One night, however, unable to sleep, she had finally reached for it and begun to read.
L iz’s mobile rang when she was on the North Circular, sandwiched between a school minibus and a petrol tanker. Her car, a dark blue Audi Quattro, had been bought second-hand with the modest sum of money left to her by her father. It needed cleaning, and the CD player was on the blink, but it ran smoothly and silently, even at her present crawl of ten miles an hour. As she scrabbled for the phone on the seat beside her, one of the boys in the back of the minibus extended his tongue at her like a lascivious dog. Twelve? she wondered. Fourteen? She couldn’t tell children’s ages any more. Had she ever been able to? She picked up.
“It’s me. Where are you?”
She caught her breath. Other boys were at the minibus windows now, gesturing obscenely and laughing. She forced herself to look away. She hated taking calls in the car, and she had asked Mark never—under any circumstances—to call her during work hours.
“Not sure exactly. Why? What is it?”
“We have to talk.”
The boys were in paroxysms now, their faces twisted like demons from a medieval painting. Rain suddenly lanced across the windscreen, blurring their outlines.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“What I’ve always wanted. You. Where are you going?”
“Away for a day or two. How’s Shauna?”
“Fighting fit. I’m talking to her this weekend.”
She switched on the windscreen wipers. The boys had disappeared. “Any particular subject? Or have you just pencilled in a general chat?”
“I’m talking about us, Liz. I’m telling her that I’m in love with you. That I’m leaving her.”
Liz stared ahead of her, appalled, as her future cracked across like mirror glass. This, quite simply, must not happen. There would be a divorce, and she would be named in open court.
“Did
But then the shadows had begun to fall. There was a move from the cosy London house to a cold block in a Midlands university town. Her father’s new teaching job was a prestigious one, but for the bookish seven-year-old it meant permanent separation from her London friends and a hellish new school in which bullying was rife, especially of outsiders.
She was desperately lonely, but said nothing to her parents, because by then she knew from the tense silences and the slammed doors that they had their own problems. Instead, she began to withdraw into herself. Her schoolwork, once sparkling, deteriorated. She developed mysterious stomach pains which kept her at home but which refused to yield to any kind of treatment—conventional or otherwise.
When she was eleven her parents separated. The separation would conclude with their divorce. On the surface the arrangement was amicable. Her parents walked around with fixed smiles on their faces—smiles which didn’t quite reach their eyes—and made a point of telling her that nothing would change. Both, however, quickly took up with new partners.
Their daughter moved between the two households, but kept herself to herself. The mystery stomach pains persisted, further isolating her from her contemporaries. Her periods failed to materialise. One evening she punched her fist through a frosted glass door and had to be given ten stitches in her hand and wrist by a junior houseman at the Accident and Emergency department of the local hospital.
When she was thirteen, her parents took the decision to send her away to a progressive boarding school in the country which had a reputation for accommodating troubled children. Classroom attendance was optional and there was no organised sport. Instead, pupils were encouraged to undertake free-form art and theatre projects. In her second year her father’s girlfriend sent her a book for her birthday. It sat on her bedside table for a fortnight; it was not the sort of thing which interested her, by and large. One night, however, unable to sleep, she had finally reached for it and begun to read.
L iz’s mobile rang when she was on the North Circular, sandwiched between a school minibus and a petrol tanker. Her car, a dark blue Audi Quattro, had been bought second-hand with the modest sum of money left to her by her father. It needed cleaning, and the CD player was on the blink, but it ran smoothly and silently, even at her present crawl of ten miles an hour. As she scrabbled for the phone on the seat beside her, one of the boys in the back of the minibus extended his tongue at her like a lascivious dog. Twelve? she wondered. Fourteen? She couldn’t tell children’s ages any more. Had she ever been able to? She picked up.
“It’s me. Where are you?”
She caught her breath. Other boys were at the minibus windows now, gesturing obscenely and laughing. She forced herself to look away. She hated taking calls in the car, and she had asked Mark never—under any circumstances—to call her during work hours.
“Not sure exactly. Why? What is it?”
“We have to talk.”
The boys were in paroxysms now, their faces twisted like demons from a medieval painting. Rain suddenly lanced across the windscreen, blurring their outlines.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“What I’ve always wanted. You. Where are you going?”
“Away for a day or two. How’s Shauna?”
“Fighting fit. I’m talking to her this weekend.”
She switched on the windscreen wipers. The boys had disappeared. “Any particular subject? Or have you just pencilled in a general chat?”
“I’m talking about us, Liz. I’m telling her that I’m in love with you. That I’m leaving her.”
Liz stared ahead of her, appalled, as her future cracked across like mirror glass. This, quite simply, must not happen. There would be a divorce, and she would be named in open court.
“Did
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