The Hook by Raffaella Barker

throughout the night. An air of unease stayed with him, only sublimated by work to the point of exhaustion. He could never know Jessica’s heart now no matter how he searched his own. He could never know if she would have stayed with him. He smiled when he read in one of Christy’s magazines that a man was supposed to think about sex every five minutes. Not love.
    Christy lost touch with her friends. She didn’t need them. One or two people telephoned, wanting to meet her before they went back to college, but she was busy. Mick’s work took him away at short notice; she didn’t like to commit herself in advance in case she missed the day he came home.
    Maisie teased her.
    â€˜If you spend any more time with him you’ll start to look like him. You already sound like him.’
    â€˜Don’t be silly, how can I? He’s Irish.’ Christy laughed but secretly she was pleased.
    Maisie had been away with Ben. He was back from the rigs for two months and Maisie made him take her on holiday.
    â€˜If I don’t he’ll just stay in the flat with that motor bike and rot in its engine until he has to go back.’
    They returned home as the summer spilled into September, and Maisie came to the farm straightfrom the plane to show off her suntan. Christy was on the roof of the office with Danny, nailing down lead flashing, sealing it for winter. Maisie sauntered out to watch them, swinging her hair down her bare back, goosebumps rising on her arms because she was wearing a sundress and the air was cool. Christy’s muscles ached from heaving ribbons of lead and her fingers throbbed where the hammer had missed its target too often. Maisie looked pampered and cherished, Ben’s car keys hooked like a ring on her finger.
    â€˜Come down, leave that stuff. I want to tell you about Spain. Ben gave me a necklace and I’ve brought it to show you. He’s coming in a minute, I dropped him off with Dad by the lake.’
    Danny’s hammer beat on the roof, its rhythm unchanging as if Maisie wasn’t there. He hadn’t spoken to her for weeks now: he was still waiting for her to apologise for the hair extensions. Christy wiped her hands on dirty jeans and climbed down. She moved to hug Maisie, leaning into the coconut scent festooning her sister.
    Maisie stepped back.
    â€˜Oh don’t. You’re not in the mood, I can see.’ She spoke sharply, and her hands flew out to push Christy away.
    Christy straightened, flushing, aware of every trickle of sweat, every tickle of dust coating her unclean skin.
    â€˜You’re right, I am filthy. I’ll have a bath when I get in.’
    Walking back to the house she stumbled and plodded, earth-bound and troglodyte, next to radiant Maisie.
    Ben and Frank edged round each other in the hall. Christy opened the front door and walked straight into Ben. His narrow hands steadied her.
    â€˜Hi there, Christy. You look hot.’
    Christy kissed him; his cheek was smooth and smelt of cheap aftershave, he was as groomed as Maisie, leaning in immaculate repose against the wall, the toe of one polished cowboy boot extended in front of the other.
    Frank didn’t like Ben. He didn’t want his daughter to marry a welder on an oil rig. Ben said he would give up the oil rigs when they got married. He and Maisie would take the motor bike over to France and ride it round the world. Frank thought this was even worse.
    â€˜Where is the security in that? All she would have is a motor-bike helmet. No house, no furniture, nothing.’
    Christy tried to soothe him, but seeing Ben and Maisie together always set him off again. ‘He is feckless and irresponsible. What does she see in him?’ he appealed to Christy after they had left.
    Christy turned away to hide her smile. Frank liked Mick. She had got something right where Maisie had got it wrong, and she felt a swoop of triumph. Ben would never give Maisie safety. Christy couldn’t