Leon would never see me as I saw him, or feel anything for me but kindly contempt. And yet I was happy, in my way, with the crumbs of his affection; a slap on the arm, a grin, a few words—You’re all right, Pinchbeck—were enough to lift me, sometimes for hours. I was not Francesca; but soon, I knew, Francesca would be back at her convent school, and I—I— Well, that was the big question, wasn’t it? In the fortnight that had followed my father’s revelation, Sharon Snyde had phoned every other night. I had refused to talk to her, locking myself in my room. Her letters too remained unanswered, her presents unacknowledged. But the adult world cannot be shut out forever. However high I turned up my radio, however many hours I spent away from home, I could not escape Sharon’s machinations. My father, who could perhaps have saved me, was a spent force; drinking beers and shoveling pizza in front of the television while his duties remained undone and my time—my precious time—ran out.
