‘Are you alright? Come downstairs.’ ‘Later.’ I hadn’t unpacked either of my cases. I’d thrown the bean-bag into the corner, but only to clear a space and not to position it. I stayed absolutely still, lying on my bed and hardly breathing until she went away. Of course I wasn’t alright. Then I jammed all the questions she’d asked me into a single senseless lump, like plasticine: What about your exams? Are you hungry? Don’t you want to talk about it? Is it a girl? Would you like some tea? Have you heard about your father? Were you being bullied? You’re not taking drugs are you? Is history too hard a subject? Coffee instead then? And when they were all mashed together I tossed them onto the bean-bag and out of sight. This room was much bigger than the one in William Cabot, with a window over-looking the front garden and the road. It was big enough for a double-bed which didn’t touch the wall on either side, and I lay there listening for the neighbours, Seventh Day Adventists who were usually out, standing on other people’s doorsteps.
