“What we’d be looking at is, something traditional,” Russel told Martin, “None of this sneering post-modern shit.  Back to basics.”

Martin nodded along with him, making encouraging, noncommittal noises.  It occurred to Octavia that she couldn’t have picked a better guy for Russel to pontificate at.  Martin Sloan was a chubby middle-aged man with an earthy Scottish accent, so Russel had quickly taken it as read that he was on his wavelength.  Of course, having worked in TV for twenty years, Martin was also an expert in feigning interest in people’s terrible ideas.  Octavia had promised him fifty per cent off his production company’s next event to humour Russel for an hour.  And hey, for all she knew, Martin might actually like what Russel had to sell.  Octavia couldn’t predict the future.

“We’d be looking at a basic quiz show format- a few saucy jokes, a couple of pretty girls jiggling up and down, you know?”  Russel winked at Martin.  He didn’t notice Tamsin, in the seat next to him, begin to scowl.  “The feminists might not like it, but how much telly do they watch, eh?”  He let out a barking smoker’s laugh.

Martin skated smoothly past this.  “And you’d be thinking of yourself for the presenter, right?”

“Mm.  Mm.  With maybe a couple of guests to introduce the different rounds.  Pop stars, comedians…”

Octavia, who didn’t have much to contribute to this meeting, began to brainstorm what she’d do in the next three or four weeks, which was probably how long it would take for Russel to figure out that Martin’s encouraging noises hadn’t actually constituted a legally binding contract.  She could find some damning evidence that would get George Chandler instantly thrown in jail where he could do no harm.  She could find a way to convince George Chandler not to believe anything Russel said.  She could find out some secret that Russel didn’t want revealed- neutralise blackmail with more blackmail.  The possibilities seemed endless, but she had to pick one fairly soon.

“That sounds promising…” said Martin, his eyes brimming with sincerity.

Russel opened his mouth to make some more suggestions, but before he could, Tamsin spoke up.  “What kind of pop stars do you think you’d be able to get?”

Russel did a bit of a jump- he’d probably more-or-less forgotten she was there.  “Tamsin…”

She looked back at him, and continued.  “Because I was thinking, for our vow renewal…”

“Tam…”

“Let’s not jump the gun on that, eh?” Martin cut in, “Look, I’ll talk to the people at Sky, see what we can do.  In the meantime, I’ve got…”

Russel shook his head.  “Not Sky.  I don’t like Sky. Let’s try one of the big guns.”

Martin glanced at Octavia, clearly getting the words Where did you even find this guy? across with his eyes.  “Well, we’ll see who’s biting, OK?  In the meantime, I’ve got your number.  I’ll keep you posted.”

Octavia checked her watch- she was pretty sure it hadn’t been a full hour.  Not that she blamed him.

*

As soon as they got outside the building, Russel started tearing into Tamsin.  “What the fuck do you think you were playing at?”

“What?” she replied, folding her arms like a sulky teenager.

“Asking him what pop stars he thought he could get!”

(Octavia was pretty sure that Russel was the one who’d mentioned pop stars first, but decided not to say anything.  She hadn’t had to so far.)

“I was just thinking, because of our…”

“You just don’t get it!  This is my fucking career we’re talking about, and you’re still thinking about getting Girls Aloud to perform at your party!”

Tamsin spluttered.  “My party?  It’s our…”

“You’re pathetic,” Russel spat, and walked off towards the taxi rank.

Tamsin stayed where she was, staring after him.  Octavia put a hand on her shoulder.  “I think he’s…”            

Tamsin shook her off.  “Just leave it, Octavia, OK?”  And she followed him down.

(To be continued)

It was two days later- after their mother had fled back to Horsham with a curse on her lips, after she and Jonathan had been to the police station and come back with some vague answers- that Russel Doggett came to Octavia’s flat.

The flat was in Southwark- somewhere central, close to Goldemar Events’ main office- and she’d filled it up with cheap Ikea furniture and not much else.  It was a functional place, and Octavia didn’t mind spending the night there.  Nights when Russel Doggett wasn’t around, anyway.

She wasn’t surprised when her buzzer went and she heard his voice on the other end of the intercom.  She’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“I’ll come down to meet you,” she said, “I’m not letting you in.”  She hung up before he could argue, and went downstairs.

The hallway in her building was clean, warm and well-lit, but Octavia wondered if she’d have felt better right now if it wasn’t.  If some of the lights had been on the blink, he wouldn’t see her coming.  His face lit up when he saw her through the front door, but he didn’t see her take her phone out of her pocket as she opened it.  As soon as she had an unobscured shot of him, she raised it and pressed the camera button three times in succession.

Russel tensed, his hands up as if expecting a fight.  “What do you think you’re playing at?”

Keeping the phone angled away from Russel in case he tried to snatch it, Octavia pressed a few more buttons and sent the photos on to Mr Ashley.  “Well, our neighbours were very concerned when they heard there’d been a strange man following my children around.  This way, they’ll all know who to watch out for.”

Russel stayed tense, and Octavia wondered if he was going to try and lunge at her.  She’d been in physical fights before (you’d never guess how rough an expensive private school could get when the teachers weren’t looking), but probably not nearly as frequently as he had.  “It’s not me you have to worry about, you stupid bitch,” he told her, “George Chandler.  What if he found out where your children lived?”

Octavia’s first thought was, How did he even find out about George Chandler?, but she quickly dismissed it.  If he was obsessed enough to follow her to Torquay and stick around for most of the weekend, then he was obsessed enough to find out everything else that could be used against her, too.

George Chandler.  He was angry with her, she knew that, but did “angry enough to throw around idle threats of a lawsuit” mean “angry enough to pose a serious threat”?  Even if he was rich enough and unethical enough to hire people to do his dirty work, would he risk losing everything he had to go after a pair of children?  Could Octavia risk everything by assuming he wouldn’t?

Apparently Octavia’s poker face wasn’t as good as she thought, because an oily smile spread across Russel’s face and he nodded.  “So we understand each other.”  He nodded towards the door.  “I think you’ll be letting me into your flat now, right?”

Yes.  That way I can murder you without having to worry about witnesses.  “Nope.  Tell me what you want.”

“I want to come up to your flat.”  He took a step forward.

Octavia moved so that she was standing right across the doorway.  “Not happening.  Pick something else.”

For a moment, she thought he was going to insist, which would have meant that she really would have found out if she had it in her to invite him up and slit his throat with the paring knife. Instead, he relaxed in place, and chuckled.  “That’s your problem, isn’t it?  You always think you’re in charge.  Even when you’re in somebody else’s house.”

That’s definitely what this is about, thought Octavia, He doesn’t want anything specific- he just wants to bring me down a peg or two.  The trouble is, with someone like him, that could mean anything.

“You thought you were so clever, sneering at me when my back was turned.  Trying to turn my wife against me.  Did you really think I was too fucking stupid to see it?”

Give him something specific to want, thought Octavia.  “Do you mean the time you said you weren’t allowed on TV anymore because you weren’t a disabled lesbian?”

“Right.  And you said…”

“What if I could get you back on TV?”

Russel’s eyes lit up, and Octavia felt something loosen in her chest.

“What?” he spluttered.

“I’ve planned events for a few TV companies.  They remember me pretty fondly.”  Fondly enough to help her fob Russel off until she worked out how she could deal with him properly, she hoped.  “I’d just need to scratch a few backs.”

Russel’s jaw was practically hanging open.  “You really think you could do it?”

“To keep my children out of danger?” she asked sourly, “Yes.”  He was lucky he hadn’t carried on asking to come up to her flat, or he’d have found out what else she was prepared to do.

Russel grinned and rocked back on his heels.  “Well, well, well…”

It was probably best to cut this conversation short while she could.  “I’m going back up now.  I’ll make some calls.”  And she shut the door behind her.

(To be continued)

(Sorry this has taken so long- I’ve got a new job and it’s left me precious little time to muck about. Things should be a bit simpler after next week.)

*

Getting a phone call from Jonathan, asking her to meet him at his office as soon as possible, was more than enough to make Octavia concerned.  Jonathan refusing to go into any more detail than, “There’s something we need to talk about,” tipped that concern over into actual worry.  And when she opened the door to his office and saw their mother sitting opposite him, trying to murder her with her eyes, it took all the strength Octavia could muster not to turn around and get as far away from here as possible.

Every time Octavia saw her mother, she hoped that, this time, she’d have finally got too old and frail to intimidate her.  And every time, she was disappointed.

Jonathan didn’t notice any of this.  He just sat behind the desk, looking all concerned like he sometimes did.  “Octavia, do you know a man named Russel Doggett?”

Octavia’s stomach dropped.  She had no idea how her mother and brother had come to know who Russel Doggett was, but there was no chance of it being a good thing.  “Yyyes…  Why?”

“He made an appointment with me yesterday afternoon,” said their mother, spitting each word out as if it tasted disgusting, “He said he had information about my daughter.”

Octavia left a reasonably long pause before asking, “Which was?”

Jonathan cleared his throat.  “He had photos…  He’d clearly been following you without your permission, and we’re going to have to discuss what we should do about that, but there was also…”

“‘Without her permission’?” their mother snapped, “Do you really think that’s the issue here?  That she didn’t give permission?”  She’d got to that stage of anger where her lips drew back and bared her teeth, as if she was threatening to bite you.  When Octavia and Jonathan had been kids, that had had been a sure sign that something you loved was about to get broken.

“What kind of photos?” asked Octavia, because there were only a limited number of things he could have photographed her doing, and none of them were particularly interesting.  Because she’d have been in London when he took them.  Obviously she’d have been in London.  Why would he have bothered to follow her anywhere else?

Her mother twisted around and fixed her famous icicle-blue gaze on her.  “It was of a child’s tenth birthday party.  A child who looked an awful lot like you.”

Octavia felt as if she was choking, just on the air in this room.  She knew that the most horrifying part of this should have been the thought of Russel Doggett skulking around Amber’s party and spying on the children, right under her nose.  Later on, maybe even in a few seconds, she’d be exactly as horrified as something like that deserved.  But right now, it seemed to pale in comparison to the thought of Josette Lambton seeing a photo of her daughters.

“I’m only going to ask you once, Octavia.”  Her mother’s lower jaw trembled.  “Is the child yours?”

Was there any point in trying to lie?  Would it do anything to keep Amber and Saffron safe?  Probably not.

Octavia folded her arms.  She hadn’t got around to sitting down, even though there was a spare chair in front of the desk, and that meant she got to indulge in towering over the pair of them.  “She is, yes.  Her sister, too.”

“And you understand the humiliation I felt, having to admit to that man that I had no idea my grandchildren existed until he told me?”  Their mother’s voice gathered pitch and volume as it went on.  It wouldn’t be long before she’d completely turned into a banshee.

Couldn’t back down.  Couldn’t blink.  “I’ve gone to a lot of effort to make sure you didn’t find out”

That seemed to surprise her.  (Why?  Had she expected Octavia to just shrink back and stammer out an apology?  Who knew what that woman thought?)  “You have the mentality of a child,” she said eventually.  Her voice was quieter now- Octavia thought she heard it shaking.  “Nothing but adolescent spite.  How dare you do this to us?”

Us.  Octavia turned to look at Jonathan, who hadn’t said anything since their mother had started yelling.  He looked back at her with those sad brown bloodhound’s eyes, and said softly, “This whole time, I’ve had two nieces I didn’t know about?”

A lot of people would have led with that.  Not with concern about Russel Doggett following her around.  Octavia sighed.  “Yes.  I’m sorry.  I couldn’t have you telling her.”

“I wouldn’t have.  Not if you’d asked me not to.”

Maybe it was because of that calm, concerned expression, and maybe it was because there wasn’t a hint of defensiveness in his voice, but Octavia was pretty sure she believed him.  And she wasn’t prepared for how lousy that made her feel. 

It hadn’t been out of spite, her decision not to tell him.  More of a ‘what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him’ thing.  And now he did know, it probably had hurt him, and he’d still mentioned doing something about Russel Doggett first.  Of course he wouldn’t have told her.  How badly could you underestimate somebody you’d known all your life?

Their mother, naturally, was just annoyed at them for ganging up on her.  “Is this how people reason now?” she demanded, “No sense of duty to family whatsoever?  No sense of guilt?”  She waved her hands in the air.  “What kind of world do we live in?  What kind of family do we have?”

All things Octavia might have expected Jonathan to ask.  If he had, he’d have got a different answer.  “The same kind of family we’ve always had- the kind of family that kicks out its sixteen-year-old daughter for not lying to make you look good.”

“You ran away at sixteen.”  Her mother’s voice reminded Octavia of a dog barking.  One of those little annoying ones that thought they owned the place.

“No- I just decided that this time I wouldn’t come back and grovel as soon as you’d calmed down.”

“You pathetic woman.”  Josette Lambton rose to her feet.  “And to think, you’re bringing up those children to be just like you.”

“That’s enough,” said Jonathan, standing up so he could face her properly.

Josette Lambton looked from her son to her daughter and back again, giving them equal doses of what she probably hoped was a withering glare.  “Oh, it’s all very modern.  Very cutting-edge.  Post -family, post-morality…”  She turned the glare back onto Octavia.   “But as far as I’m concerned, they’re not my grandchildren.  Because as far as I’m concerned, you’re not my daughter.”

That stung, even though it shouldn’t have (hadn’t it basically been the case for the last two decades?).  But Octavia was an expert in faking nonchalance.  “OK.  Can I go now?”

Josette Lambton went crimson.

Jonathan cleared his throat.  “Mother, can I talk to Octavia in private for a moment?”

“I’m not finished,” said their mother, but she started backing towards the door anyway.  Octavia remembered how much she liked to make a memorable exit.  “I’m disgusted with the pair of you.”  She opened the door, stepped halfway through, and turned her head at the last moment to say, “I’m going to have to think very hard about what I do next.”

With that, she shut the door behind her.  Octavia had to bite her tongue not to laugh.  What I do next?  What was Octavia meant to imagine her doing?  Joining a Grandparents’ Rights group, and losing interest as soon as she realised it meant having to interact with working-class people?  Bitching about her in the Sunday papers again, and hoping somebody actually bothered to read it this time?  Sitting in her house thinking aggrieved thoughts at her as hard as she could?

To think she’d spent the last ten years deceiving her brother because of the old cow.

Jonathan tapped the chair in front of his desk.  “Please, sit down.”

Octavia sat down.  Whatever he had to say, she probably deserved it.

“I think it would be a good idea for us to talk to the police about Russel Doggett.  His kind of behaviour tends to escalate.  Best to nip it in the bud.”

This time, Octavia actually did laugh.  “That’s really your top priority, isn’t it?  Not the fact that I’ve been keeping two whole human beings secret from you for the last ten years.”

Jonathan frowned, but only a little.  “It… just seems like we should deal with him soonest.”   He glanced down at his desk, avoiding eye contact.  Octavia was just about to say something like, I don’t deserve a brother like you, when he added, “Besides, it’s not like I don’t see why you kept it secret.”

“I shouldn’t have.  I don’t know why I assumed you’d take her side.”

He looked back up at her.  “Octavia, look at me.  I get it.  You’re terrified of her.  Even if you were ninety-nine percent sure I wouldn’t tell her, that one percent was too big a risk to take with your own children.”

“I should have trusted you.”  Octavia was surprised at how quiet her own voice was.

“Well, maybe you would have if I hadn’t kept pressuring you to make up with her.  I should have known better.”  His eyes went all concerned-bloodhound again.  “But do you trust me now?”

“Of course,” said Octavia.  As if she’d have said ‘no’ at this point, even if she hadn’t.

He smiled back grimly.  “Then let’s talk about what we’re going to tell the police.”

(To be continued)

They went food shopping on Thursday nights, up to the big Tesco near the motorway.  Normally Mum and Uncle Christian let Amber and Saffron go to the toy section after they’d been down the first three or four aisles, but today they’d made them wait until Amber had chosen her birthday cake (she picked Bart Simpson.)

The toy section was a big collection of aisles just by the clothes, and the first thing you came to was a big wall of dolls, Barbies and Sindys and all the others.  Even though she’d probably looked at them a million times before, Amber took down the boxes, one by one, and read the little bits of writing on the back.  “These ones are supposed to be going to an international high school, right?” she said to Saffron, “But then you get three of them from America and four from everywhere else in the world.”

Saffron nodded.  She’d said the exact same thing last week.

Amber put the doll back, and moved on to the little plastic Sesame Street characters on the right.  “Do you think that sometimes Americans forget that anywhere else exists?”

“Maybe.  America is really big.”  Saffron pointed behind her.  “I’m going to look at the books, OK?”

“OK,” said Amber.  She was too busy mercilessly analysing the Cookie Monster to look up.

The bookshelf here was excellent.  Even if there wasn’t anything new this week, Saffron would be happy to flick through a couple of the ones she’d read before.  There was a poetry book about what teachers got up to behind your back, for instance, and a spooky one about an evil great-aunt who came to visit a family and plot their doom, and the youngest son was the only one who could stop her.  On her way there, though, Saffron passed the cuddly toys, and decided to have a look at them.  Really what she wanted to do was buy them all and take them home, but Mum and Uncle Christian would never let her buy eight whole toys on one shopping trip.  They couldn’t stop her picking them up one by one and hugging them, though.

The one nearest to Saffron was a giant Tigger- nearly half her height- and when she picked it up, she noticed something strange on the shelf beside it, hidden in its shadow.  It was a little pink plastic rectangle, and Saffron was pretty sure it wasn’t meant to be there.  Why would they put it somewhere you couldn’t even find it?  You’d never get anyone to buy it that way.

Saffron put the Tigger back and picked up the rectangle.  It looked a bit like a make-up kit, but Saffron wasn’t going to open it up to make sure in case it broke.  Was it one of the ones from the make-up aisle, or had it fallen out of someone’s handbag by mistake?

“Someone must have changed their mind about buying it,” said Amber, after Saffron went back to show her.

“But why’d they leave it with the cuddly toys?”

“‘Cause they were too lazy to take it back to where they’d got it.”

Saffron looked back down at the rectangle.  “I’m going to take it to the Customer Service desk.  They’ll know what to do.”  Saffron had only found out about the Customer Service desk last month, when Amber had left her coat by the bookshelves and they’d had to come back the next day to find it, but now she knew all about how it worked.

“Why not just take it back to the makeup section?  That’s where it goes.”

“It might not be from the makeup section here.  Someone might have lost it.”  Saffron wasn’t as worried about that as she was about getting to the makeup section, not being able to find the place it was supposed to go, putting it on a random shelf and having total strangers ask her what she was doing.  But she wasn’t going to tell Amber that in case she laughed.  “If Mum and Uncle Christian get here before I come back, can you tell them I’m at the Customer Service desk?”

“Fine,” said Amber, and went back to reading the Action Man box.

The Customer Service desk was right on the other side of Tesco, over by the entrance.  To get to it, Saffron had to find a till with no-one on it, duck under the chain with the ‘Out of Order’ sign stuck to it, and walk all the way along the front of the store, with her right hand pointing out awkwardly in front of her so everyone could see she had the makeup kit and she wasn’t trying to hide it or steal it or anything.  She walked past the café, with its lovely smell of baked beans and chips like a signal saying, It’s Thursday!  The weekend’s nearly here!  And it was around then that the man caught up with her.

She didn’t know where he’d come from.  One second there wasn’t a man walking beside her, and the next second there was.  “What have you got there, sweetheart?” he asked.

Saffron stopped in her tracks, her feet seeming to lock in place all on their own.  He’s a security guard, she thought, He thinks I’m stealing.

He didn’t actually look like a security guard.  He wasn’t wearing a uniform or anything- just an old grey sweatshirt and jeans.  He had wild grey hair and glasses, and he was smiling at her.  Sort of.  It was more like he was trying to smile, but he wasn’t very good at it.

Saffron took a deep breath.  “I found something in the toy section that’s not meant to be there, so I’m taking it to the Customer Service desk so they can work out who it belongs to.”

“Right,” said the man, stretching it out as if he thought that she was funny.  Or that she was lying.  “And what’s your name?  Are you here with your mummy?”

Those were exactly the kind of questions that a security guard probably asked you before arresting you.  “Yes.  And, um, I’m Saffron.”

“Saffron, right,” said the man, rocking back and forth on his heels, “And your mummy’s name, is it Octavia?”

“Yes…”  Saffron looked sideways.  A few people had moved out of the way, and a path had cleared to the front of the store.  “Um, I really need to go to the Customer Service desk,” she said, and walked away from him as quickly as she cold.  She didn’t run, because that would have made her look guilty, but maybe if she went fast enough he wouldn’t have time to work out what was going on and stop her.

It was only a minute later, after the Customer Services lady had nodded and smiled and taken the make-up kit off her hands, that Saffron really began to wonder who the man had been.  It was funny- she’d been told a million times not to talk to strangers, but she’d been so worried about him arresting her for shoplifting that she’d forgotten all about it.  Maybe the man had been a security guard.  But what if he wasn’t?  What else could he have been?

Saffron turned around and looked at the route in front of her, deciding that if the man was still there, she’d go and hide in the Ladies’ toilets until he’d gone.  But there was no sign of him, so off she went, walking as fast as she could, back to Amber.

*

She had it planned out- as soon as she answered the door, she’d fall to her knees and beg, telling him she’d do anything, work any job, just as long as he let her stay somewhere warm and bright for just a little while.

*

Anna’s birthday lunch (seven lots of burgers and fries, plus milkshakes and bits of cake) was finished.  Immediately after the last bite, the kids had disappeared into the playground equipment near the picnic tables, leaving the adults to clean up the mess and/or use their absence as an excuse to gossip about people they didn’t like.

“I told you she wouldn’t last long,” said Gemma Marsh, the mother of Saffron’s friend Bethany and also Octavia’s colleague at the drop-in centre fifteen hours a week, “Every time you asked her to do something, she took it as a personal insult.”  She picked up some of the food packaging and put it into a plastic nag.  “In the end, she threw a screaming fit in front of a group of patient, and stormed out.”

“Why do I always miss the good stuff, eh?” asked Octavia, picking up the remains of the Swiss roll.  She’d only had a couple of bites of it herself- it had smelled strange, sort of cheap and yeasty.  She hadn’t said anything, because whoever had brought it had been very generous to do so without being asked, but she had to wonder what was in it.

Her mother would definitely have said something.

Yes, Octavia, you’re a real paragon of virtue for not demanding to know who tainted your daughter’s party by bringing along such a low-class Swiss roll.  That’s a really high bar you’ve set for yourself.

“So she left this week, did she?” Mr Ashley asked Gemma.

“On Thursday, yeah.”  Gemma started filling up another bag to take to the bins over by the fence.

“So would I be right in assuming that this means there’s a paid position open at the drop-in centre?”

Octavia shot him a look that said, Don’t start.  Mr Ashley looked back innocently.

The table was clear.  They could start walking up to meet the children and see which ride they wanted to go on next (preferably a gentle one, for the sake of everyone’s stomachs).  As they went, Octavia went over a conversation in her mind, one that she and Mr Ashley had had a thousand times before.  Yes, alright, it’s a hassle travelling between London and Torquay.  Alright, I don’t even like London that much.  Alright, everyone I work for is a complete tosser.  But it brings in good money, OK?  At this rate, eight years from now, Amber and Saffron will have their pick of universities, and in the meantime, they won’t have to worry about…

There was a cry of pain.  It wasn’t Amber or Saffron, but it did sound familiar.  Octavia looked up and saw four of the girls they’d brought to Finch’s crowded around one of the rope swings, where it looked like the fifth girl was trapped.

“She wanted to see what would happen if she spun her hair around the rope at the same time as it was spinning the other way,” explained Amber, as the adults hurried towards them, “But then she got stuck.”  The girls’ friend Lily sat on the swing, deeply uncomfortable, with her head stuck to the rope by her long, blonde ponytail, which seemed to have actually merged with the rope in places.  This is why we keep Amber and Saffron’s hair shoulder-length, thought Octavia, before she could stop herself.

Gemma and Angie, one of the other mothers, tried turning Lily the other way and unwinding the hair like that, but it didn’t seem to work.  Gemma looked back at Octavia, cringing as if she had toothache.  “We might have to get the scissors out…”

Lily, overhearing this, looked horrified- she’d always been proud of her long hair.  She’s got nobody to blame but herself, said Octavia’s mother, in her head, Let this be a lesson.  Vain little creature.

“Wait, let me try,” said Octavia, stepping forward, “I’ve got long nails.  I might be able to do it.”  The other mothers moved out of the way, and Octavia bent down a little so that she could get a better look at the rope.

She picked at the hair, strand by strand, finding the ends and teasing them out.  Every so often, Lily made a whimpering noise when she pulled too hard, but otherwise she stayed quiet.  She was hoping this would work just as much as Octavia was.

After three or four minutes, Octavia’s fingertips were burning and raw from rubbing up against the rope for so long, but Lily’s hair was almost all out.  She pulled the last few strands away herself, leaving a strange golden sheen on the rope.  “I’m free!” she cried, punching the air as she jumped down.

Octavia straightened up, and beamed.  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this great.

*

From the moment Josette let the man into her house, he looked at it as if he owned it.  She couldn’t even call it covetousness- he was looking at it as though it was already within his grasp.  He was inspecting it as though it was a used car he wanted to buy.  Well, of course.  Like so many in this country, he thought he was entitled to come in and make himself at home.  There was no difference between himself and Josette, after all.  Why would there be?

He sat himself down on the sofa (Chesterfield in grey oak, if he only knew), and grinned at her.  “Cup of tea?” he asked.

Josette could have slapped his face.  Instead, she just walked over to the chair opposite and sat down.  “You said that you had information about my daughter.  What is it?”

If Mr Doggett expected payment, he was about to be very disappointed indeed.  Josette had as much information as she required about her daughter- no more, no less.  She knew about the “event-planning” business, a kind of monetised obsequiousness in which Octavia desperately courted the favour of notable people.  She knew about the bare little flat near London Bridge.  Mr Doggett would have to try hard indeed to convince Josette that she cared to know anything else.

An oily grin spread across his face, revealing teeth that looked like rubble from a building site.  Fitting, perhaps- Mr Doggett likely came from a long line of labourers, generation after generation of men whose greatest joy was to make animal noises at any passing woman, never looking for greater intellectual stimulation than that provided by a ninety-minute football match.  (Ah, said the socialists, but he was born the same helpless, weak creature that you were.  And what difference did that make?  Some people actually learned and grew after their birth, instead of rolling around in their own filth for decades to come.)

Mr Doggett took out his mobile telephone, pressed a few buttons, and held it out so that Josette could see what was on the screen.  “Take a look at these photos.  See if you recognise anybody.”

The first photograph was of an outdoor picnic table of some sort, with a large group of children stuffing their faces with fried food while the adults ignored them.  It took Josette barely a moment to recognise Octavia (bony and unwell-looking, chatting to a fat woman with a ragged pony-tail), and a few seconds more to recognise Mr Ashley, Octavia’s old music teacher.  Josette would have thought that the man would have been long dead by now.

Mr Doggett swiped his finger across the screen, and the image changed.  One could see more of the background- multicoloured rollercoasters and signs pointing to other attractions.  This one showed Octavia with her arm around a small girl who was blowing out candles on a shabby store-bought cake.  The child’s hair was dirty and her face was smeared with food.  Beside her, a balloon floated on a string attached to the table.  It was a gaudy pink-and-silver thing with the number ten printed on its side.

Josette opened her mouth to ask the point of any of this- was she supposed to be shocked that Octavia’s repertoire apparently included children’s parties?- when she saw the other girl in the picture.  Ratty pigtails and a pair of cheap plastic glasses, but besides that, she was the exact image of Octavia at ten years old.

Mr Doggett saw the expression on her face, and nodded.  “What if I told you you had two grandchildren you never knew about?”

(To be continued)

George Chandler had sent an email.  Apparently, if the awkward questions from the Inland Revenue didn’t stop soon, he could make her life very difficult.  Octavia wasn’t sure what he could do that would make her life any more difficult than it would have been if she’d carried on working for him, but she’d keep his email on file.

Meanwhile, she had Tamsin and her fractured fairy tales to attend to.  Russel was out today, so there was a bit of a weight of her mind.  Octavia sat on the shiny plastic sofa, and listened to Tamsin’s story about Russel hiring a skywriter to propose to her on her birthday.  “He actually proposed to me twice,” she added, “But the first time was just him whispering in my ear when we were watching Eastenders.  You can’t say yes to that.”

“I suppose not,” said Octavia.  The living room was so cramped that, if she wasn’t careful, she ended up sitting so that the coffee table was digging right into her knees.  It wasn’t even that small a room, but it was crammed so full of extra pieces of furniture that there was barely any space for you to fit.

“And anyway, our relationship wasn’t exactly on solid ground at the time.  We’d…  Well.  Something had happened, and there was a lack of trust.”

If he had an affair, just say he had an affair, thought Octavia.

“So I’d begun to, you know, play games.  Cause drama.”  She sighed.  “At the end of the day, I was just trying to get him to prove that he wasn’t like my dad.”

“Why, what was your dad like?”  (Obviously, Russel had already told her, but Octavia didn’t necessarily trust his judgement.)

Tamsin snorted.  “How long have you got?  After my mum chucked him out, it was like he just gave up on life.  He’d just be sitting on the sofa all day, staring at the TV with his mouth hanging open.”

Octavia made a sympathetic noise.

“One time when I was fifteen, I went round his, and he asked me to go on an errand, pick up something from a friend of his.  So I take the bus across town, and when I get there, it turns out that it’s a crack den!”  Tamsin’s face twisted in disgust.  “He wanted me to pick up pills for him!”

It took Octavia a moment to decide what her reply was going to be.  “Did you?  Pick them up, I mean?”

Tamsin shrugged.  “Yeah.  I’d promised my dad.”  There was something about the dull resignation in her voice that got to Octavia.  Maybe that was how you ended up married to a seedy old bastard like Russel.

She thought it over, then decided to say it.  “My parents kicked me out when I was sixteen.”

Tamsin’s eyebrows went up, and the rest of her seemed to do a little jump along with them.  “Really?”

“Well, technically, they’d been throwing me out every few months since I was thirteen.  Since I was twelve, if you count the year they sent me to boarding school.”  To this day, Octavia was convinced they’d only pulled her out of St Agnes’ because she hadn’t missed them as much as they’d hoped she would.  “They were divorced, so what would happen was, my mum would throw me out and tell me to go to my dad’s until she’d forgiven me.  Or until he got angry and threw me out, too.”

Tamsin nodded.  “Was it like they were using you as a weapon?  To hurt each other?”

Octavia thought about it.  “Maybe a little on my dad’s side, but not on my mum’s.  She always seemed to think they were on the verge of getting back together.  I mean, he remarried twice, but Mum just saw that as a minor bump.  She was the epic love story; his other wives were just distractions.”

Tamsin said nothing, but a strange look crossed her face.  Russel had definitely had an affair, Octavia decided.

“Anyway, when I was sixteen, my mum got me to play the piano at a party.  I was quite good at it in those days- my dad was always on at me to go professional.  But then, after I finished playing, somebody asked me if my mother had taught me how to play, and I said no- I’d been taking lessons from a man called Mr Ashley who’d advertised in the paper.  And my mother completely lost it.  She refused to speak to me for the rest of the night, and after everyone had gone, she completely lost it with me.”

“What, just because you told them about your piano teacher?”

“More because I’d said no when they’d asked me if it was her.  It was true- I don’t think she’d ever touched a piano in her life- but in her head, I’d humiliated her in front of all her friends.”  Octavia tried to remember what her mother had thrown at her that night- a glass? an ornament?- but there had been so many arguments over the years that some details had merged in her mind.  “She threw me out and told me to go to my dad’s.  But I ended up at Mr Ashley’s place instead.”

“Why?”

“I think I just thought of it because he was the one we’d been arguing about.  I knew I didn’t want to go to my dad’s- my stepmother had just had a baby, and the sleepless nights were making him temperamental.  Mr Ashley was the only adult I could think of who might be pleased to see me.”

“And he let you stay?”

“Yeah.”  A smile came to Octavia’s face, completely unbidden.  “I told him I’d leave school and get a job so I could pay rent, but he told me not to be ridiculous.  He just gave me the spare room, without a second thought.  I found out later that he’d taken in a few other people before me- mostly gay kids whose families hadn’t reacted well to it- so he had it down to an art.  There were even spare clothes I could use in the wardrobe.”  For a moment, she worried that she’d phrased that wrong- made it sound as if Mr Ashley had been a serial killer or something- but Tamsin was looking at her wide-eyed, with a big smile on her face.

“So you felt safe with him,” she said softly.

“Yes,” said Octavia, “That’s exactly it.”

“That’s how I feel when I’m with Russ.”

Octavia had to put in a lot of effort not to frown at that.

(To be continued)

They had three hens in the hutch in the garden, and Christian had named them Anna, Emily and Charlotte.  The girls had wanted to call them Keisha, Mutya and Heidi, but the girls weren’t the ones paying for their feed every week.

“Can we leave some of the eggs?” asked Saffron, who Christian had talked into holding the basket while he risked his hand with the sharp breaks and talons, “I want to see if any of them hatch into chicks.”

“Not much chance of that, I’m afraid,” said Christian, handing her the last egg and then wiping his fingers on his handkerchief, “There eggs are unfertilised.  We’d need a rooster.”

A strange expression crossed Saffron’s face, and Christiaan wondered if he’d said the wrong thing.  Eventually she said, “How long would It take for them to hatch if they were?”

“Around three weeks, I should think.”

“So… not months and months, like with a human?”

Christian paused.  Something was clearly bothering her, even if it wasn’t the thing he’d assumed.  He’d been worried that she’d go further into why they’d need a rooster for the eggs to be fertilised, and eventually they’d get to a point where the line they’d taught her and Amber when they’d started school (“Every family is different- some people have a mum and dad, but you have a mum and an Uncle Christian”) wouldn’t be as effective as it had once been.  Instead, she’d fixed on the idea of pregnancy.  “Is there something on your mind, darling?”

“Well…”  Saffron didn’t meet his eyes.  “Faye in my class says in takes nine months to have a baby, and Amber’s only five months older than me.  So she says we can’t really be sisters.”

Christian nodded.  He supposed he’d always known that the girls would work it out sooner or later, but wasn’t it just his luck that it would come up while Octavia was away?  “Saffron,” he said, crouching down and bracing her arms in his hands, “You and Amber are sisters.  And your mother and I love you both equally.”

Her frown deepened.  “Yeah, but… is one of us adopted?”

“What would it mean to you is you were?  Would it really make a difference?”

He should have known he wouldn’t be able to dodge the question that easily.  Not with one of Octavia Lambton’s daughters.  “Am I, though?”

Christian sighed.  Octavia had told him that, if the girls ever asked him the awkward questions while she wasn’t around, he should be as honest as possible.  Still, he wished she’d been there for this.  He couldn’t help but feel that he was gossiping about her behind her back.  “No, you’re not.  Your father was a man your mother met at work.  His name was Tom, I believe.”  He’d only met the man once, but he’d seemed nice enough.  “They lost touch when he moved to America.  Your mother didn’t find out she was having you until after he’d left.”  And it was around that time, over the course of one frightened phone call, that Christian had more or less insisted that Octavia move back in with him, at least for a while.  And then, a month or two later, Octavia’s stepmother had shown up.

“What about Amber?” asked Saffron… but she’d relaxed a little by now, so Christian felt it was safe to use his Get Out of Jail card.

“It’s Amber’s story- I can’t tell it to you behind her back.  I’ll tell it when she asks, and not a moment sooner.”  He knew he didn’t have to worry about Saffron badgering Amber into asking him.  He’d seen how much strain it had put on her just to raise the subject at all.

(To be continued)

For at least an hour, Octavia and Tamsin had been sat in the living room, chatting away as they planned the ceremony, while Russel sat in the corner, observing them.  But the moment Tamsin left the room to go and check on the baby, Russel got up and moved across the room.

“Thought I should apologise for Tamsin,” he said, as he sat down in the seat his wife had just vacated.

“What do you mean?”

“Showing off that bag.  I warned her.”

The bag was a little black one that Tamsin had bought from Miss Selfridge at the weekend.  She had been eager to show it off… an hour ago, when Octavia had first arrived.  Since then, they’d been so preoccupied with musicians and caterers that Octavia had forgotten all about it until now.

“Piece of cheap tat.”  Russel looked up at the ceiling, as if trying to work out whether Tamsin was directly above their heads or not.  “Buys some plastic crap off the high street and thinks that makes her a trendsetter.”

Apparently Russel had declared all-out war on Tamsin’s bag, and he badly wanted Octavia on his side.  “It looks alright to me.”

“Oh, come on.  Some of your clients must spend thousands of pounds on designer bags.  That thing barely cost a tenner.”

“Some of my clients spend thousands of pounds on bags that don’t look half as nice as Tamsin’s.  I once knew a woman who paid a designer a quarter of a million to superglue diamonds all over her bags and belts, and they still fell off in the wash.”

Russel didn’t seem to have heard this.  “The trouble with Tamsin is, she’s immature.”

That strikes me as something you should have thought of before you married a woman thirty years younger than you, Octavia didn’t say.  There was such a thing as tact.

“She reads things in magazines, and suddenly it’s the gospel truth.  That’s what this whole vow-renewal thing is about- she read that Beyonce or someone had done it, and suddenly she’s got her heart set on it.”  Russel caught Octavia’s eye and smirked.  “It’s no wonder- look at her parents.  Father’s a miserable druggie- spends all his time doped up to the eyeballs.  As for her mother…”  He chuckled.  “I’ll tell you something about her mother.  First time Tamsin introduced us, she was offering me a threesome by the end of the night.  God’s honest truth!  With her own daughter!”

Octavia wondered if Tamsin had been in the room when that conversation had been going on.  She also wondered exactly how old Tamsin had been at the time.

“Anyway.  Point is, the ceremony’s what she wants, so I’ll indulge her.  We’ll let her have her way with the fairytales and that, eh?”  He winked.  “But just keep in mind, it’s not her money we’re spending.  Alright?”

At that point, the stairs creaked- Tamsin was on her way down.  Russel got up and went back to his original seat, and no more was said.

(To be continued)

Saffron and Amber were both in Year Five, but they’d been put into different classes so that they’d get a break from each other. They usually played together at break and lunchtime, though, and today they and a few friends were sitting in a corner beside the benches at the back of the playground, trying to decide whether they were going to play “It” like Bethany wanted, or some other game that Amber had made up and wanted to try out. Saffron didn’t mind which one they picked. She was just glad that Amber was keeping her promise about the wall.

They sat in a circle on the concrete, and Lily counted them out, one by one. “Ip-dip-sky-blue-who’s-it-not-you.” (Saffron knew four or five other versions of that, including a rude one that some of the older kids played but that she and her friends didn’t because they were too scared of getting caught.)

“We’re going to go to Finch’s first thing in the morning,” said Amber, interrupting the rhyme so that Lily had to start again, “We might even have breakfast there.”

“We’re not having breakfast there,” said Saffron, “They only have burgers and chips at Finch’s. Uncle Christian would never let us have burgers and chips for breakfast.”

Amber rolled her eyes. “Alright, fine- we’ll go there right after breakfast. You guys can all come, right?” She looked around at Lily, Bethany and Harley, who all nodded. “It’s going to be amazing. You know they’ve got that new rollercoaster? Mum says we can go on it.”

“Is it Saffron’s birthday, too?” asked Harley, who hadn’t known them as long as the others had.

“No,” said Amber, “I’m five months older.”

Harley looked confused, which made Saffron’s stomach turn upside down, because she thought Harley was going to say the same thing Faye Jackson had said a few weeks ago. Faye had said that it took nine months to have a baby, so Amber couldn’t be five months older than Saffron. Not if they were really sisters.

Saffron had worried all day about how to tell Amber what Faye had said, but when she did, Amber hadn’t been bothered. She’d said that it didn’t always take nine months to have a baby. Sometimes they were born early, like Bethany’s little brother had been. And that made sense… but Saffron was still worried. Even though she’d told Amber, she didn’t dare tell Mum or Uncle Christian, in case they said something different.

Anyway, Saffron needn’t have worried about Harley. She just asked Amber about the new rollercoaster- whether you needed an adult to go with you or you could go on your own.

“I don’t know,” said Amber, “But you’ll be able to go on it either way- our mum will go on it with you.” By now, they’d all basically forgotten about the “ip-dip” rhyme and whatever it was meant to decide. Amber was moving some sticks around to make an assault course for the ants who lived in the cracks at the bottom of the wall.

“Really?” asked Harley, “My mum never goes on rollercoasters.”

“Our mum does,” said Amber, “Arranging parties is actually her job. That’s why mine and Saffron’s parties are always so great.”

(Saffron didn’t disagree with Amber out loud, but she’d never thought that their parties were that much different to any of their friends’. Maybe there was something she’d missed, like when Uncle Christian said that advent calendar chocolate was the cheap nasty kind even though it clearly tasted the best out of all of them.)

“That can’t be her job,” said Bethany, “Arranging parties isn’t a job.”

“Yes it is,” replied Amber, “I’ll bring in one of her business cards if you don’t believe me.” One thing Saffron had always been jealous of was how Amber always sounded so sure that she was right. She never worried as much as Saffron did.

*

No matter how many times she’d learned not to get attached to anything, that it would always be taken away the next time their mood changed, some things still stayed, some things still made her light up, and she found herself walking to her music teacher’s house almost by accident.

*

Octavia had dropped by Jonathan’s house to see how Denny was doing. Apparently he was doing so well that he wasn’t even in when she got there.

“Judith and Rosalyn have taken him to a meeting,” Jonathan told her, the beginnings of a smile flickering around the corners of his mouth.

“A meeting?” asked Octavia. They were sitting in the living room, because it was too chilly to stay in the garden. Octavia started to worry about Amber’s birthday again.

“Some political thing at the university. Students against bad housing, or something like that.” He was full-on smiling now, as if Rosalyn and Judith being against bad housing was one of the most adorable things he’d ever heard of. “I told him to ask for a prospectus while he was there. If there’s a subject he’s interested in, it’s not too early to make enquiries for next year.”

“And they won’t mind that he didn’t do his A-levels?”

Jonathan waved a hand. “There’s things he can do to make that up. Not everyone follows the same path to higher education.” (He’ll have picked that phrase up from something he’s read, thought Octavia.) “Oh, Niamh sends her love, by the way. It’s a shame you missed her.”

“Yes, I’m sorry I couldn’t make it.” Actually, Octavia had been semi-consciously avoiding Niamh. Things had been a lot better between them since they’d talked it all out last year, but there was still some distrust there. Or maybe not as severe as that- maybe just awkwardness. Either way, it wasn’t something you could resolve all in one go. “There’ll be another time.”

“Speaking of which,” said Jonathan, stretching his arms out to cover the back of the sofa, “I was on the phone with Mother for more than a hour yesterday. You’re heard about the trial, right?”

“The Oakmen thing? Has it started yet?”

“Not yet. But they’re gathering potential witnesses- they’ll probably want to talk to us about Denny- and she’s already furious at the prospect of Natalie Clements smearing her name in court.” He grinned. “I told her that Natalie wouldn’t be their first priority- she wasn’t even there when the attack happened- but she just won’t hear it.”

“If she does smear her name, it’ll be no more than she deserves,” said Octavia. Roger and Sarah Clements had come dangerously close to suing them last spring, and both Jonathan and Octavia suspected that Natalie had been the one to talk them out of it. Octavia wouldn’t have blamed Natalie for deciding to go for the jugular, but she probably hadn’t want to upset Denny. “And it’ll be no more than Mum would have done if there positions were reversed. You remember how they talked about them.” Octavia imitated their mother’s airy drawl. “How dare they question me? They went to comprehensive schools and they shop at Sainsburys- they’re practically a different species!”

Jonathan didn’t react to this. “How long has it been since you went to visit her?”

Octavia stiffened. “About eighteen months. And I only went last time as a favour to you.”

Jonathan’s eyes went big and sad. “She’s a lonely old woman…”

“Yes, and there’s a good reason for that!” Octavia hadn’t meant to snap. It had just come out that way.

“Octavia…”

“Look what happened when you tried to do something nice for her! You hired someone to help her with her old press cuttings, and she smashed her phone for no reason!”

Jonathan sighed and looked put-upon, and Octavia came dangerously close to telling him that that exact expression had probably been half the reason that Jeannie had left him. Bad enough to have your mother-in-law constantly browbeating you without your husband giving you that look whenever you complain. “You can’t hold a grudge forever,” he told her.

Octavia gave him a harsh, mirthless smile, the kind that showed off too many teeth. “Watch me.”

(To be continued)

When he was young, Christian Ashley had assumed he’d never have children.  And indeed he hadn’t, not in the usual way, but he’d become a kind of foster parent a dozen times over.  They began to turn up on his doorstep one day, kids of about sixteen or seventeen whose parents hadn’t wanted them around anymore, and, one by one, they’d slept in his spare room for a while.  He’d done what he could for them, keeping them safe and insisting that they completed their schooling (even when they tried to insist, as Octavia had done, on getting a full-time job so that they could contribute to the household).  Amber and Saffron were the first children he’d raised from infancy, but at this point, he liked to think he knew what he was doing.

This morning the sun was shining through the window and onto Octavia’s side of the breakfast table, and it made her look serene, like a saint in a Renaissance painting.  Christian always felt better when Octavia was at home, and not just because the girls missed her.  He just hated to think of her being on her own.

“You’re not going to find it,” Saffron said to Amber, who was fishing about in the cereal box, “We already got it a few days ago, remember?”

Amber glowered at her.  “No we didn’t.”

“We did.  It was the Maggie Simpson ring again, remember?”

This seemed to spark something in Amber’s memory, and she gave a disappointed huff and poured the cereal into her bowl.

Usually, Christian dropped the girls off at school (where most of the other children’s parents assumed he was their grandfather until told otherwise), but today Octavia had said she could take them on her way to the clinic.  She volunteered there three days a week.  Christian couldn’t have been prouder of her- he’d known a lot of people who’d had trouble fighting their demons, especially when he’d lived in London.  If they could only offer her a paid position so that she could work there full-time, it would be perfect.

“Amber, listen,” said Octavia, “I don’t want you climbing the fence again, alright?  Your teachers are going spare.”

“OK,” said Amber, in a bored drone.

“I’m serious.  I’ve seen that fence- it’s about four metres high.  If you fell, you’d hit your head on the concrete.  No more climbing.  Not there.”

“Fine.”

Saffron’s face brightened.  “Can we listen to the Temptations in the car?”

Christian couldn’t help but smile.  The Temptations CD was his, and he was honestly delighted that Saffron liked it so much,

Amber groaned.  “I’m sick of the Temptations!  Why can’t we listen to Lily Allen?”

Octavia put a hand on each girl’s shoulder.  “We’ll compromise.  Cliff Richard.”

“No!” wailed both girls in unison.

“Octavia, we do not speak that name in this house,” Christian told her primly.

Octavia laughed.  “OK, here’s what we’ll do- we’ll listen to Lily Allen until we get to the big garage- that’s halfway, right?- and then we’ll listen to the Temptations the rest of the way.  Divide it up equally.”

The girls mumbled their agreement, and went back to their cereal.

“And what are you going to do today?” Octavia asked Christian.

He smiled.  “Nothing much.  I’ll probably feed the chickens, then go into town to see if the book I’ve ordered is in yet.”

“Perfect,” said Octavia, “Wish I was doing that.”

*

You could never hide.  You could never find other things to occupy your thoughts- they wouldn’t allow it.  They wanted to be your only source of solace, because otherwise it wouldn’t hurt as much when they refused to give you any.

*

Octavia thought that some of Tamsin’s ideas for the ceremony had a lot of potential.  When she’d mentioned fairy tales, Octavia had worried that she’d meant a pink sparkly princess vibe, but Tamsin wanted the venue decked out in cloudy mirrors, red apples, and the thorniest rose bushes anyone could find.  With Tamsin herself in a silver dress that shone like the moon.

“And as for music,” she said, a little breathless, “I thought maybe…”

Russel, who’d been watching this whole thing with an amused look on his face, picked this moment to interrupt.  “Have you ever been married yourself?”

“I was once,” Octavia replied, “But unfortunately my husband died a long time ago.”  Hopefully that would stop him from asking what the ceremony had been like.  If she told him that it had been a basic registry office do followed by a trip to the pub, he might start asking why he was shelling out for rose bushes and moon dresses.

“Oh my God,” said Tamsin, her voice softening at the end of each word, “That’s awful.”

Octavia gave her a reassuring smile.  “I was prepared.  I knew he was dying when I met him.”  In fact, it was the whole reason she’d decided to marry him in the first place.  If she was Pete’s next of kin, then his parents didn’t get to arrange his funeral or decide who was and wasn’t allowed into his hospital room.  “Anyway, you wanted to say something about music?”

A big grin spread across Tamsin’s face.  “Oh, yeah.  I thought maybe Russ could get in touch with someone.”

Russel raised his eyebrows.

“There’s people you’re still in touch with from your TV days, right?  So you know people, and they know people…  If we do it right, we could actually get a performance from someone famous!”

Russel made a sound as if he was pretending to spit on the floor in disgust.  “You must be joking.  I wouldn’t get in touch with that lot if they were the last people on Earth.  I wouldn’t piss on them if they were on fire.”

“Oh, please!”  Tamsin clasped her hands together.  “For me?”

Russel sat up, probably just so he could project his voice better.  “You want people like that involved?  People who stabbed me in the back?  Just so you can get up on stage with Girls Aloud?”

Tamsin shrank back, chastened. 

“I guarantee you, if you did get on stage with them, you’d hate them by the end of it.  Showbusiness is toxic.  Everyone involved is mentally ill.”

Russel had just used a lot of words to say, ‘I don’t actually know anyone you’ve heard of,’ but Octavia was on the clock, so she smiled and nodded.  She’d heard bigger lies in her line of work, mostly things like, ‘Our brand’s lifestyle culture will change the world,’ and ‘This detox routine is totally safe.’  She’d once encouraged a feud between two rival fashion houses (which had resulted in them trying to outdo each other with ever more extravagant events, each one organised by Octavia), just by agreeing with the ridiculous things they all came out with.

“Good, clean entertainment,” Russel continued, “That’s what we tried to give people.  But people just aren’t interested in that anymore.  If you’re not a disabled lesbian, you can forget about it.”

Octavia gave him a thin smile.  “My mother says exactly the same thing.”

(To be continued)

Amber and Saffron had put a blanket over the table in the back room, so they could pretend it was a tent.  That way, they could imagine they were camping out in the middle of the thunderstorm.  They could be daring adventurers in the deep dark woods, with only a thin bit of canvas protecting them from the typhoon outside.

“What do you think would happen if the house got struck by lightning?” asked Saffron, her eyes still on the window.

Amber felt a pang of annoyance- they were supposed to be pretending they weren’t in a house- but answered her sister as quickly as possible, because she knew Saffron worried a lot about things.  “That wouldn’t happen.  There are too many trees around.”

“What difference does that make?”

“The lightning wants to strike the trees instead.  That way, it gets down to the ground quicker.  The roof’s made out of stone- the lightning would just bounce off.”  The lightning didn’t fork and zigzag the way it did in pictures.  Mostly, it just looked as if the clouds had little lightbulbs inside of them and somebody was turning to switch on and off.  As if God had a great big celestial circuit-breaker in His hand.  “Hey, how much do you think it would have to rain before the whole town flooded?”

Saffron shrugged her bony little shoulders.  Amber was pretty certain that Saffron was the smallest girl in Year Five.  In fact, she was pretty certain that there were girls in Year Three and Four who were bigger than Saffron.

Amber looked back at the rain, splattering against the window, and imagined having to row a boat to school, or hop between rooftops to avoid the churning waves.  She didn’t know why she loved that idea so much, but she did.  Sometimes she thought she might join the navy as soon as she left school, just so she could go and have adventures on the wide, endless water.

The door creaked open behind them, and they heard Mum’s voice say, “Time for bed.”

Amber’s reply was almost an instinct at this point.  “Awww.  Can we have five more minutes?  Pleeease?”  Sometimes it worked.  Or at least, sometimes it worked on Mum.  On nights when she stayed up in London, Uncle Christian couldn’t be budged- the second the clock struck nine, he was hovering over their shoulders and making them brush their teeth.  “Early to bed, early to rise,” he said.  Sometimes it felt like they lived in the Victorian times.

Anyway, today it didn’t work on Mum, either.  “You can watch the storm just as easily in your bedrooms.”  The clouds lit up again, and a few seconds later, there was a rumbling sound.  Mum glanced at the window, looking thoughtful.  “Five seconds.  That means the storm’s about a mile away.”

Amber nodded.  Uncle Christian had told them about how you could work out how far away lightning was by how long the thunder took.  Maybe he’d told Mum that too, when she was a little girl.  “How far away is a mile?”

“Well, your school is two miles away, so…. what’s halfway between here and there?”

“Um…  The big garage, I think?”  Amber didn’t spend much thought on this, because she’d just had an idea.  “So, wait, if it was two miles away, could the lightning hit the school?”

Mum laughed.  “The school building has lightning conductors.  You’re not going to get a day off because of a storm.”

“What about if it flooded?  Like, if it carried on raining for days and days…”

“It’s a tough old building, Amber.  It can withstand the elements.”  Mum hadn’t crouched down to talk to them like she sometimes did when they were sitting down.  From here on the floor, she looked as tall as a skyscraper.  “Anyway, you like school.  All your friends are there.”

“Yeah, but there’s teachers there, too,” Amber muttered.  If she was honest, it wasn’t so much that she didn’t like school; more that she liked being in other places a whole lot more.  For instance, her friends’ houses also had her friends in them, and nobody ever made her do a Maths worksheet there.

“I like school,” said Saffron, just to suck up.

Mum seemed to remember where she was.  “Anyway, speaking of school, you need to go there tomorrow morning, so off to bed.”  Mum pointed out into the hallway, in the direction of their rooms.  Amber grumbled a little, but did as she was told.  As she did, she thought about something Mum had told her once.  Mum had always liked school when she was a little girl.  But that was mainly because she hadn’t liked being at home much.

Amber remembered Mum’s stories about the strict boarding school she’d gone to when she was twelve.  Mum said it had been freezing cold, there were spooky creaking sounds all night, and half the teachers acted like they wanted to murder you.  But Mum had even had fun there, because she got to pretend that she was in a horror movie.  Amber didn’t think she’d be able to do that, if she ever got sent to a boarding school.  She loved imagining things, but it would be terrible to know you couldn’t stop.

(To be continued)