Whiteout by Ken Follett

came out of the house, looking annoyed.
    He came to Miranda’s window. “Jennifer’s out,” he said. “Sophie hasn’t even begun to get ready. Will you come in and help her pack?”
    â€œOh, Ned, I don’t think I should,” Miranda said unhappily. She felt uncomfortable about going inside when Jennifer was not there.
    Ned looked panicked. “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure what a girl needs.”
    Miranda could believe that. Ned found it a challenge to pack a case for himself. He had never done it while he was with Jennifer. When he and Miranda were about to take their first holiday together—a trip to the museums of Florence—she had refused, on principle, to do it for him, and he had been forced to learn. However, on subsequent trips—a weekend in London, four days in Vienna—she had checked his luggage, and each time found that he had forgotten something important. To pack for someone else was beyond him.
    She sighed and killed the engine. “Tom, you’ll have to come, too.”
    The house was attractively decorated, Miranda thought as she stepped into the hall. Jennifer had a good eye. She had combined plain rustic furniture with colorful fabrics in the way an overseer’s house-proud wife might have done a hundred years ago. There were Christmas cards on the mantelpiece, but no tree.
    It seemed strange to think that Ned had lived here. He had come home every evening to this house, just as now he came home to Miranda’s flat. He had listened to the news on the radio, sat down to dinner, read Russian novels, brushed his teeth automatically, and gone unthinkingly to bed to hold a different woman in his arms.
    Sophie was in the living room, lying on a couch in front of the television. She had a pierced navel with a cheap jewel in it. Miranda smelled cigarette smoke. Ned said, “Now, Sophie, Miranda’s going to help you get ready, okay, poppet?” There was a pleading note in his voice that made Miranda wince.
    â€œI’m watching a film,” Sophie said sulkily.
    Miranda knew that Sophie would respond to firmness, not supplication. She picked up the remote control and turned the television off. “Show me your bedroom, please, Sophie,” she said briskly.
    Sophie looked rebellious.
    â€œHurry up, we’re short of time.”
    Sophie stood up reluctantly and walked slowly from the room. Miranda followed her upstairs to a messy bedroom decorated with posters of boys with peculiar haircuts and ludicrously baggy jeans.
    â€œWe’ll be at Steepfall for five days, so you need ten pairs of knickers, for a start.”
    â€œI haven’t got ten.”
    Miranda did not believe her, but she said, “Then we’ll take what you’ve got, and you can do laundry.”
    Sophie stood in the middle of the room, a mutinous expression on her pretty face.
    â€œCome on,” Miranda said. “I’m not going to be your maid. Get some knickers out.” She stared at the girl.
    Sophie was not able to stare her out. She dropped her eyes, turned away, and opened the top drawer of a chest. It was full of underwear.
    â€œPack five bras,” Miranda said.
    Sophie began taking items out.
    Crisis over, Miranda thought. She opened the door of a closet. “You’ll need a couple of frocks for the evenings.” She took out a red dress with spaghetti straps, much too sexy for a fourteen-year-old. “This is nice,” she lied.
    Sophie thawed a little. “It’s new.”
    â€œWe should wrap it so that it doesn’t crease. Where do you keep tissue paper?”
    â€œIn the kitchen drawer, I think.”
    â€œI’ll fetch it. You find a couple of clean pairs of jeans.”
    Miranda went downstairs, feeling that she was beginning to establish the right balance of friendliness and authority with Sophie. Ned and Tom were in the living room, watching TV. Miranda entered the kitchen and called