Iris thought that he sounded like he wanted them to grow old together, and she didn�t know quite how she should feel about that. Her immediate future was planned around the days that remained until he left her to return to New Zealand; and after that, she had no plans except not to miss him.

His leaving party was a rowdy business of joyful drunkenness. She wore jeans and a delicate purple top, and her red hair hung like a cape around her shoulders. He kept her with him, danced with her, deliberately forgetting their weeks of careful secrecy. No regrets� he sang into her hair, and then kissed her long and hard on the mouth. It did not matter anymore.

As soon as he had gone, she understood clearly what he had been doing, but by then it was too late for her. Those last few days, for him, had had the bittersweet flavour of a love affair that he was already planning to remember as ideal: love with no promises, no expectations, and no future.

But while he had been hand-crafting his memories of her, she had simply been enjoying his company; living in the present, as she fully intended to go on doing.

For the most part, Iris found it rather nice to have her solitude back, and not have to make sure she was always wearing a matching set of underwear in case she found herself unexpectedly taking her clothes off in his presence, as had been happening so often in recent weeks. She celebrated by cooking up an enormous bowl of pasta, smothering it in garlicky sauce, and eating it in bed with her socks on.

Iris very slowly became aware that her period was overdue, although not dangerously so; she did not feel the need to worry. Her cycle varied between 26 and 32 days; a circumstance that she assumed was common, although it was a long time since she had discussed this with anyone who was qualified to confirm it. She did not nurture female friendships. Anyway, she had all the right pre-menstrual symbols: internal grumbling that she described to herself as feeling like she had swallowed an ashtray; breasts heavy as a bag of apples but far less resilient; a discreet spot on her chin.

In the very early hours of Day 36, she dipped a cardboard stick into a plastic cup of her own urine, and shivered in her shabby bathrobe while she watched the map of her future damply redefining itself in the form of two pink lines.

If Iris was a character in a weak work of fiction, there would be an omnipotent, omniscient (at least in this respect) author, who would probably have already made the decision for her, perhaps based on her own experience (if said author was a woman; and if not a woman, then said author would not be writing about Iris but about Nathan. Or about aliens).

His face grinned and glowed in the bitter December night air. Come and have a drink with me, he demanded, taking over some of the bags and walking away from her, so that she had to follow him into the shopping crowds.

Did you get everything you wanted?

Iris nodded. They sat in the smoking section of a riverside tapas bar, with a mojito each, resting their knees against the radiator. The carrier bags formed a small fortress around their ankles, and they waited before peeling off coats and scarves, until they adjusted to the ambient warmth. Usually I get my Christmas shopping done well in advance, she said, wondering if she should have ordered a hot chocolate to wrap her frozen fingers around. Nathan reached across the table and took her hands in his, rubbing them vigorously enough to dispel any notion of romance. I particularly enjoy being jewish at this time of year; certainly doesn�t feel like I�m missing out. Shall we get something to eat?

Mm, yes� no!

Nathan twisted in his chair, to look in the same direction as Iris�s widened eyes. Colleagues, people who knew them, were visible across the busy room. Meh. I wonder if the albondigas are beef or pork. Does it bother you if they see us?

It did not so much bother Iris, as confuse her, since all their dealings until now had been covert, and often elaborately so. For all the languorous pleasure with which they enjoyed each other�s company, there was ultimately a vaguely exciting touch of secrecy, which lent spice to the time that they had shared so far. A silent unacknowledged voice asked her if they risked losing the allure, if they came out.

I got my tickets home today, said Nathan. Will you miss me?

Iris arched an eyebrow at him, and gave a casual little one-shoulder shrug. A little, she conceded. Shall we get some olives?

Delicately, they spun the evening out; and if they were observed by their colleagues, no-one came over to disturb them, because they looked a little bit too much like a couple, laughing into each others� eyes over the safety-glass shrouded tealight and the focaccia bread. Nathan knocked back another couple of mojitos, because they were aromatic and refreshing, and reminded him of home; and Iris had a strawberry daiquiri, because she had never tried one before. It was dreamy-sweet, but she did not want another.

They had forgotten about their colleagues by the time they tripped out of the bar, wrapping their outdoor clothes around themselves, and pressing close together. The streets were busy with tipsy late-night shoppers, and an icy fog glowered at street-light level. I feel as though my moustache is frozen, Nathan commented.

You don�t have a moustache.

Nathan burrowed his hands inside Iris�s coat, pulling her into a doorway and nuzzling his face into her neck. She breathed in his warm scent, and enjoyed the rough scratchiness of his wool coat, brushing against her cheek. You�re like a pocket, where I can hide from the world. Your body is my refuge. His fingers burrowed beneath Iris�s clothes, letting in slices of cold air, but she liked listening to him mumbling sweet things to her, and she liked shrinking against a wall while he towered over her and kissed her skin. And after all, he was going home soon, she would not have this anymore. Let�s go home.

But I�ve got all this shopping� Iris was already following him towards his digs, which was much closer than hers, and usually tidier and warmer, but she would end up asleep in his bed, and have to rush in the morning to get to her mum�s house in time for Christmas dinner.

The house that he usually shared with three other men in their early twenties, was empty, as they had all deserted him for the Christmas period. He did not mind a day or two of solitude, and the opportunity to treat the whole place as his own. He filled the kitchen with a glorious aroma of coffee, but also opened a fine tempranillo that did not belong to him, and made cheese sandwiches with some camembert that needed to be eaten soon, squashed into the bread with leaves of rocket and spinach. Iris borrowed sellotape, and wrapped up her presents.

You could come with me, tomorrow, she offered, certain that he would refuse; but even combining his jewishness with the depths of her own agnosticism, she had difficulty with the idea of him being alone on Christmas day.

You could stay here, he replied, with a Nathanish grin, and pushed a large glass, half-full of red wine, across the table towards her. Don�t you think that would be nice?

I�m getting some really mixed messages from you tonight, you know. She may have sounded slightly annoyed, but that was because she was having difficulty with an awkwardly-shaped vase, and strands of her ubiquitous red hair getting stuck to the tape. Is this because you�re going home soon?

Nathan did not respond, but offered a helpful finger, to hold down the folded corner of paper, so that the tape could be fixed more satisfactorily. Iris shoved the wrapped presents back into carrier bags and stacked them by the kitchen door. This is still just a fling, right?

Apparently she drives him to work, but he makes her wait in the car for ten minutes so no-one notices them going in together, Stephanie was saying in her heavy Devonshire accent, which Iris privately thought made her sound rather simple.

Sally replied too quietly for Iris to hear, but they both broke into squeaking laughter. Iris could feel her face flushing a warm grenadine pink, and wanted to sneak off before she was spotted. What they said was not true, but in her experience, truth was never a mandatory element of gossip.

What d�you think, Nathan? Never dip your nib in the company ink, eh?

With a slow sense of shock, Iris became aware that she had been holding her breath; she had not realised that Nathan was also in the kitchen, although she had read the details of the office Christmas party three times without absorbing them.

She�s an idiot, Sally pronounced. If a relationship begins in bed, it�ll never be more than sex.

You should know, love, Stephanie teased.

I dunno, girls. Why should having sex with someone mean you can�t fall in love with them?

The girls jeered good-naturedly at Nathan and ushered him out of the kitchen, carrying the tray of drinks for their department. Iris stared at him stupidly as he passed; he met her eyes, but then his glance flickered sheepishly away.

She tucked a thread of long, red-gold hair behind her ear and rested her chin on her elbow, watching the slight ripple of activity at the other end of the room, where a door opened into the tiny kitchen. She felt out of place here, as she felt almost wherever she was. She was too tall, too plain, too slow-moving. At school she had been teased for her low-pitched voice and her spectacles, and she had never quite lost that sense that someone was about to tell her how stupid she was, in their opinion. Years had passed and that had continued not to happen, now that she was grown up, but she still felt an echo of it, making her blush when she walked around a crowd of schoolgirls at the station, or crossed the road to avoid someone who might look her up and down with a sneer curling their lip.

Iris always dressed conservatively for work; plain clothes, dark colours, to blend with the filing cabinets. There were people who she had conversations with, but she often wished they would not bother her; at lunchtime she occupied a corner of the blue-painted staff lounge and opened a heavy book, which usually prevented any danger of social overture. She was not completely anti-social; she went along to office parties, usually wearing black; she even danced at the Christmas do, tipsy and fending off advances from Dave in IT.

It wasn�t even that shyness stopped her being a party animal; just that she preferred to deal with people on her own territory, at her own pace, and at a time of her own choosing. She was not unpopular, either; but as people respected her obvious desire for privacy and solitude, she was unable to reckon the number of people who were happy to spend time with her.

She had been in the job, for six months; after university, she had spent several years selling advertising space and doing various other lowly media-related tasks. She was not pushy enough to be a journalist, but she could spot an undotted i at 50 paces, so copy-editing was her fate, and one day if she was lucky she might get to be a chief copy-editor. She liked being paid to read all day, even on days when she ended up with the money pages on her desk. Today it was like working in a library; just the shuffling of paper and occasional muted telephone calls, muffled conversations, soft bursts of typing on quiet modern keyboards. Iris was restless at her desk, but the kitchen looked busy, so she could not go down there and make herself more tea. She waited for the people to disperse, the water cooler moment to be over. And she watched the flow of her colleagues around each other, observing the currents of politics and flirtation.

When it was quieter, she slipped away from her desk, self-conscious as she walked down the aisle between filing cabinets and VDU screens, the idle eyes of editors and administrators burning into her old favourite suit. Seconds away from her seat, she looked forward to returning to it, her safe corner.

Nathan was making toast in the kitchen, and had thrust open the window to let out the evidence of his incompetence before it set off the building�s smoke alarms. Encountering the hapless expression on his good-looking face, Iris forgot to feel awkward, and returned his smile. He was healthily tall, like a young green sapling; a New Zealander who described himself as the foreign exchange student, only working here for a too-brief year. His indiscriminate charming politeness always included Iris, and so she liked him and gave him a little less distance than their colleagues.

Nathan was able to be so utterly charming because he existed in a state of general carefree contentment, taking things in his ample stride. For three-quarters of a year he had been enjoying relative wealth and a continued lack of responsibility, editing articles for the paper�s website, his rent paid and a colourful social life guaranteed. He was 24 years old and had failed so far to get a degree, to his father�s disgust, which was part of the reason for his extended stay in England. When he tired of his very pleasant lifestyle, he told people, he fully intended to go home and knuckle down.

Two days ago, Nathan had invited Iris to join him and some other colleagues on a trip to the cinema, and she had cautiously accepted, because sometimes she found her own company tiresome, and there was rarely anything particularly diverting on the television. What film they saw is immaterial, but Iris had surprised herself by having a good time, and by being able to relax. Afterwards, they adjourned to a bar, and she had felt a little bit left out in her corner, taking no part in the general hilarity except to smile politely whenever she understood one of the cliquey jokes.

Come out with us again on Friday, he said now, encouraging her with his antipodean white-toothed smile.

She considered it: colourful noise in a smoky pub, possibly a club, probably still a bit left out; and she shrugged. I have nothing to wear.

Dismissing her objection, he went back to his desk and emailed all the details about what time he would meet her, and where; and so Iris found herself making conversation with some girls from another department, who really weren�t so unfriendly, it was just that she didn�t know them well. Nathan did not talk to her much, but he danced with her in the hubbub, and she found his out-of-work spikes of hair and his extra splash of aftershave pleasingly attractive, so she raised her eyebrows at him, and he bought her a drink.

She was fuzzy round the edges, from drinking and dancing, when he swept her up in the lobby of wherever they were and bundled her into a taxi. Like remembering the rituals of a lost magic art, she invited him in for coffee, and even made some, which of course was never consumed; instead he kissed her and undressed her, and for a little while she abandoned the fortifications that kept other people out of her life.

She liked fucking him, and she did it often. She was unable to describe it to herself as making love, because neither of them pretended that they loved; nor as sleeping together, because they never ever slept. Instead they fucked, mostly at the weekends, or on occasional weeknights, which resulted in them being bleary and bashful in the office, and a general reduction in productivity.

One of the reasons she liked it was because his body was so very pleasant: his legs were solid and long, clothed in fine, bleached hairs; his stomach was flat, and his chest chiselled, reminding her of a clich�d old black and white poster of a man holding a baby and pretending to give the child a devoted look, while making sure his best side was turned to the camera. She liked to watch him undress, and could spend hours stroking his golden skin, absorbing into her fingertips the years of New Zealand sunlight that had marinated it. He was always warm.

At work it was clear that they had become friends, although they continued to know relatively little about each other. He didn�t know her star sign, but he was intimate with the noise she made and the way she wriggled when his teeth nipped the soft downy pale skin between her neck and her shoulder. They certainly did not come out as a couple; all was kept quiet, and no-one ever enquired, as Nathan was assumed to sleep around, and Iris was assumed to have no sex-life at all.

It worked beautifully, except for one tiny flaw, which was that Nathan only had another ten weeks before he was due to go home.

Stay with me, he said quietly.

I don�t think I�ve ever been this comfortable in my entire life, she mumbled, kissing his neck and pulling the sheet up over their shoulders. The bed was as luxurious as a steaming bath, and there was no danger of being disturbed.

I mean it. Stay with me. I won�t let you go. He was reiterating promises he had whispered in the night, that she could have discounted or forgotten, but he had obliterated her cynicism. She wanted to feel like this forever, and it felt as though there was no reason why that could not happen.

This was not a heady, silly feeling that could be described as cloud nine. This was something that she could relate to real things, like the pure cocoa smell when you break a new bar of chocolate; like the softness of heavy, thick silk; like an icy glass of water on a hot day. This was waking up with her colour palette refreshed, and comfort in the knowledge that she was not experiencing it alone.

There�s a fly in our ointment, she remarked. No milk, no bread, no breakfast.

What time is it?

It was after ten. Matthew tore himself out of the bed with great difficulty, committed to providing for her even if it meant going out into the cold, to buy supplies in the village. Helena ran herself a bath when he had gone, and soaked away the delicious bruises that ached beneath her skin. In repose, her face slid automatically into a smile, because she felt good. If Matthew came back quickly, she thought, he could use her hot water to warm up after walking through the snow.

As soon as she emerged from the water, the icy air wrapped itself around her, making her shiver violently and leap for one of the threadbare towels that dangled limply from the hook on the back of the bathroom door. Wrapping one around her damp hair, she made a mental note to replace them with something suitably large and fluffy, and then wandered down the stairs in dressing gown and slippers, seeing everything in the dazzling light of the beautiful and fresh winter morning.

She heaved open the sitting room shutters, revealing the empty grey fireplace, which needed to be cleaned out and restocked, unless of course they were going to go back to bed after breakfast, which was a profoundly appealing concept, and much more appealing than digging ash out of the fireplace in her dressing gown.

There was a rattle at the door, which made Helena think that she should see if she could find a spare key. She paused by the inner door, self-consciously pulling the towel off her head, and then lifted the latch. It was not Matthew on the doorstep, but the girl Kate, looking pale and cold, with her hands in her pockets. Hello, she said, from beneath the brim of her fake-fur hat.

Hello. Are you looking for Matthew? Helena stepped back, allowing her to come into the house.

Kate stood in the hallway, staring round at the stark white walls and the high windows, set up in the stairwell where the light could find a way into the house past the treetops. Yes� no�. Brr, it�s not very warm in here. She pulled at the sides of her coat, wrapping it round herself, and looked quizzically at Helena�s dressing gown and bare legs.

I was just going to light the fire, Helena said, because it seemed unlikely now that they would be able to spend the day in bed. Matthew�s gone down to the village, but he shouldn�t be long. She tried to match Kate�s grey eyes and high, round cheekbones with someone she was sure she had met before. Something in the placing of her features was ringing a bell, deep in Helena�s subconscious.

Kate had every intention of staying; she had already removed her wet boots, and padded along the hall behind Helena, in her woolly socks. Helena apologised that she could not offer anything to eat or drink, and Kate smiled, shaking her head dismissively. She tucked herself into the corner of the sofa as though she had been visiting the house for years, and Helena knelt at the hearth with the shovel and the brush, hoping that Matthew would remember that she needed more coal. Kate avoided her eye.

You�re not at school today? Helena asked, as she pulled back her sleeves, trying not to get herself covered with the soot that she was brushing off the back of the chimney.

It�s Saturday, said Kate. Gran�s on the warpath because Dad wasn�t there this morning, so I was coming to warn him� sort of� I suppose� and I was� I wanted to ask you about something, so I�m kind of glad he isn�t here. The girl blushed heavily, and Helena recognised the minute tremble of nerves in the tone of her voice.

She put down the fire irons and sat back on her heels, looking up at Kate, who was fiddling anxiously with the ends of her pale brown hair. What can I possibly help you with? Helena wondered.

Kate phrased and re-phrased her question in the silence, and coughed once before speaking. I wanted to ask you about my dad.

Matthew? Helena smiled; no other subject could appeal to her more. What do you want to know?

No, my real dad. Your dad. No-one ever lets me talk about him. Gran won�t have his name mentioned in her presence, and Dad � Matthew, I mean � says he never really knew him, except through you�

As Kate rambled on, Helena could hear every word with absolute clarity, but found herself unable to respond; unable, in fact, to close her own mouth. She stared at Kate, and the nagging familiarity of the girl�s features resolved itself into recognition, evidence that she was telling the truth.

Kate stopped speaking and looked at Helena, horrified. You didn�t know, she whispered. I thought everyone knew. It�s all over the village�

You�re not helping. Helena�s voice sounded cracked and dry. She wanted Kate to shut up, to take back what she had just said, to make it not true. Through a haze, she saw the frightened girl in a ball on the sofa, but could not find words that would help her; it was as much as she could do to push back a scream of anger and pain. Her face was frozen with the effort.

Matthew walked into this impasse, having picked up Helena�s key on his way out, half an hour ago. He read the two faces and guessed immediately that a possibility he had been trying to ignore had taken place: Helena on her knees wiping coal dust absently on to her horrified white face, and Kate wringing her own fingers hard enough to pull them off. Both frowned in furious attempts not to cry, and both looked to Matthew for a solution. He was pulled in two directions at once.

Helena tried to speak above a whisper, but her voice was shaking. How could you not tell me?

Nell, I�m sorry. I thought it would hurt you to know, I was waiting for the right time�

Which of course would be after you had slept with me? How can you be so proud of being honest with her, and then hide it from me? Helena shot Kate a filthy glance, blaming her even while she knew that it was not the child�s fault.

We are not going to have this discussion in front of Kate. It sounded like a well-practiced line, momentarily silencing Helena with its calm authority. She remained on her knees, watching Matthew hold out his hand to Kate and lead her back down the corridor, talking to her with quiet words; and she heard the door close, and his footsteps returning. She wanted to throw herself on the floor and howl.

Matthew was lifting her gently to her feet, one hand supporting her, the other stroking her hair, and he was murmuring to her, telling her it was going to be alright. It really was not going to be alright, but his presence, the passive strength of his hug, was overwhelmingly comforting. Helena had to pull herself away from him to breathe freely and gather her thoughts.

Let me make you some tea. And I picked up your post in the village. Matthew wanted to make things seem normal, push the shock away so that they did not have to deal with it. He clattered around in the kitchen until Helena came to join him.

Silently, she pulled out a chair and sat down at the kitchen table. He gave her a mug of tea, and she clutched it, letting the heat of the china burn her fingers. She focused on the pain, putting all her energy into not feeling it, and failing. She gave a little gasp, and let go of the mug. I�ll leave as soon as the roads are clear.

Matthew sat opposite her, his eyes fixed on the puddle of tea beneath Helena�s mug. He shook his head, but could find no words that did not sound hopelessly melodramatic. He wanted to fall to his knees and beg her not to leave him again, not when they had been given a second chance. You don�t have to leave, he said. We can face this together, I can look after you. He tried hard to keep the hopelessness out of his voice.

Your knight in shining armour act didn�t work for Emma, did it?

So you�re going to run away, in the Sumner tradition?

Their glares clashed across the table. Give me my letters, Helena demanded.

Matthew leaned back in his chair, to grab an envelope from the counter behind him, and passed it across to her. As she put down her dripping mug and tore carefully into the letter, shooting him a fierce scowl, she reminded him painfully of Kate. He looked forward grimly to yet more years of the crushing, stabbing ache that his adopted daughter so often caused him.

Helena laid the letter flat on the table, smoothing her hand across it, and raised her eyes. You could come to Geneva with me, she suggested.

Matthew sighed, and on the intake of breath, he saw them holding hands in some foreign city, drinking coffee in the sunshine beside another, bigger lake. He would like to have held that breath, if that would have made it possible. He exhaled. I can�t leave Kate, he said. And I can�t leave Leasdale. I�m not qualified for anything, I couldn�t live any life other than this one. I just want you to live it with me, Nell.

The village suddenly felt terribly small, with the gossiping voices almost audible, all the way from the bakery a couple of miles away; and the Sharkeys glowering from their farm, on the other side of Sumner Hall. Helena did not want to be caught in the middle of all this for the rest of her life, tangled up with Matthew�s cupboard full of skeletons. His promises of comfort and security were empty, so much wishful thinking; she had not even begun to process the idea of Kate, beyond the stark knowledge that it was Kate�s existence that would continue to make it impossible for her to stay. Meant to be or never meant to be, all the closeness of the last few days was just a tortuous taste of something they could never have.

They said goodbye at the Gatehouse door, with one indulgent kiss before they turned away from each other, and their own lives closed around them again. As Helena walked back through the house, she tapped the barometer, and the needle flickered upwards into Change.

A cat was a very permanent arrangement, an idea anchored in routine and stability. Since leaving Leasdale, Helena had never lived in one place for longer than three years, and the concept was a novel one.

There are always kittens up at the farm, Matthew remarked.

You still live up there, then, with Emma�s parents? Emma�s parents had allowed themselves to believe that marrying Matthew would restore what they considered to be their shattered respectability, and tolerated him on those grounds up until the point where they were all proved wrong. One of the farm buildings had been converted into quite a pleasant little cottage, and Matthew continued to live there with Kate, who was now the tenuous reason that they let him stay. It was the second house that Matthew had ever lived in.

We should have got away with it, but there are always people who feel the need to put things right, like the gossip is some sort of need-to-know news service. First one old bat adds up the months between the wedding and the birth, and then another one mentions the fact that we�ve never been seen around as a couple, and… and� well anyway, people knew that I wasn�t Kate�s father. Matthew sighed.

Did you love Emma? Helena felt a churning in her chest when she asked. She supposed it must be jealousy.

A twig snapped and spat in the fire, throwing an angry red cinder out on to the dusty hearth. Matthew was a long time in answering the question. We got on alright, he said. Emma had been sweet, devoted, good company, and hopelessly thankful to Matthew for being there to provide such solid support against the world, however limited their world might have been; except when she was gripped by a black dog mood, angry with her lot, raging against him for insisting that she should carry on, screaming unforgivable things at Kate. Glasses and plates might shatter, and he would count the isolation of the farm as a blessing, that the prying villagers might continue not to know how fragile she was. He knew that any sort of weakness was a target; he understood the importance of keeping up appearances.

We had to be honest with Kate, he said, because we wanted her to be prepared for the day that she heard it from someone else.

But she still calls you Dad?

Well, I�m the only Dad she�s ever had. And it has the bonus of annoying her grandparents. A small smile flickered across his face, pride in Kate�s streak of impudence. He stood up from his end of the sofa, stretching his limbs, which had stiffened up after the long cold walk; and he picked up the plates and carried them through to the kitchen. Helena followed him, padding quietly over the flags in her slippers.

I should get back to the farm, he said, snapping off the kitchen lightswitch so that the hallway was only illuminated by the slice of light around the half-closed sitting room door.

I wish you would stay. Helena leaned against the cold wall on the other side of the narrow corridor, close enough to see his features in the darkness. He seemed to have brought the light and warmth back to the house, and she did not want him to take it away again.

Matthew stepped across the corridor, and as he took her hand, a shiver shook through Helena�s body.

Are you cold?

No.

I can�t stay, Nell. I have to go and make sure Kate�s eaten something and done her homework. He touched his lips to her forehead with an avuncular little kiss that did nothing to soften the jittery churning beneath Helena�s ribcage.

She sat with her knees tucked up, gazing at the last red coals in the fire, putting off going to bed. She wondered what would have happened to Emma and Kate if Matthew had not tried to rescue them. She was quietly horrified at his huge, chivalrous gesture, for it seemed to her that his life had slewed off its tracks.

For Helena, walking out of her job at the age of 30 had been perhaps the biggest decision of her life, but even that had been cushioned by the money and the house she had quite recently inherited. Her career path had been nothing more structured than a series of accidents, much like her haphazard love-life, and it always surprised her that she had done so well in the former, although not that she had done so badly in the latter.

She stretched across the sofa, unable to marshal her concentration enough to consider what she might do next. While her world was banked with snow, and as long as she had warmth and food, she might stay holed up in the safety of her nest. It might be three weeks before the thaw started, or she might wake up in the morning to the sound of melting snow pouring off the roof and dripping from the trees. She could not move on until something changed.

There was no sound but the soft crackling of the coals, and despite the bottle of wine that they had finished between them, she did not feel sleepy. Restless, she got up and pushed the fireguard into place, and switched off the sitting room light. In the dark, she wandered slowly to the kitchen, where the window was too close to the trees for any moonlight to penetrate. The fridge whirred quietly in its corner, but there was no sound of any mice. Helena closed the door and padded down the corridor to the stairs.

The tall window did let moonlight through, and she paused on the landing to look out at the pale orb of the moon, unobscured by cloud on this bitterly cold night. The night storage heaters were just starting to tick, and give off the dusty smell that they never seemed to lose. It was too gloomy to tell whether her breath was clouding in the chill air, but she was glad that Matthew had managed to persuade the heaters to function.

The bed would still be bitterly cold, though, she thought, and headed back down the stairs to put the kettle on. As she paced around the kitchen waiting for it to boil, there was a thunderous knocking at the door, startling her enough to make her yelp, even though she knew it was almost certainly Matthew.

She let him in, closing the heavy outer door quickly behind him, before the cold could flood into the precarious warmth of the house. He did not speak, but gently pulled her close to him and kissed her. His face felt cold and smelt of the night air, and the chill clung to his clothes. He shrugged off his heavy coat and hung it on the newel post, from where it slid to the floor.

He hesitated on the landing, and she led him to the front of the house, the room she still thought of as her parents� bedroom, and they stood kissing for a long time before they found themselves in amongst the coolness of the sheets.

He and his classmates were turning eighteen, applying for universities, staying in town after school so they could drink in pubs; it was not that they could not get served back in the village where everyone knew their ages, but that there were so few establishments that one could not avoid drinking with one�s parents, which would be no fun.

Before the summer, he had had no plan, but trusted the non-decision that he would leave home, get a degree, travel, find a job like everyone else. He never considered the inevitable separation from Helena to be significant, because they would get round it somehow, or they would be reunited at the end of each term. Now his lack of a plan felt like aimlessness, as though he had lost his reason for moving forward.

The post arrived after he had left to catch the bus each day, and without being entirely conscious of it, this lighted a little fire of hope at the back of his mind for the next eight hours, which was damped when he returned home to find that there was nothing from Helena. By the time he went to sleep, an incidental thought process had completed, to remind him that there was always tomorrow. Until she wrote, he could not find out where she was, and it was hard to stick to his resolve to get on with his life without her. He sent off his UCCA form and waited for the university boards to decide his fate. The summer extended itself deep into that golden September, forcing on him long light evenings with no company. Sally took him back at the boat landing, and the first thing he did was to fix the winch. The tide of tourists was ebbing now, so he spent a lot of time sanding and varnishing the boats, hoisting them up into winter storage, and arguing with Sally about her inclination to replace them all with fibreglass. The new boat was light and unstable, deep bottomed so that people might get into difficulties in the shallow parts of the lake. The oars were less well-made, but the old oars were too heavy and slid out of the rowlocks, or did not fit them at all. Sally pointed out that they were not actually his boats.

Nevertheless, he took one after she had gone home, one of the shallow old wooden ones, clinker-built and reliable, and let himself softly out on to the water. He did not want to go to the island, but rowed around it twice, unable to burn off an excessive amount of energy. These days he found his body as restless and aimless as his mind. As the sun went down, he shipped his oars and let the boat drift, listening to the slap of tiny waves against the seasoned wood.

The dark was coming down slowly, causing a streaky haze along the shoreline. He could hear the cars on the road clearly, and the squawk of coots in the reeds; sound travels well over water, so he also heard the creak and splash of movement coming from the boathouse on the shore in front of Sharkey Farm. He sat up and peered across; the boathouse was rarely used now that the Sharkey lads were all grown up and working the farm or moved away, and he doubted that any boat in there would be lakeworthy.

He sculled his boat across the lake to investigate. The walls of the boathouse had been built solidly out into the lake from the pebble beach, so that a boat could be rowed directly in, and dragged up on to dry ground at the back. The ramshackle wooden doors had been pushed open and the gloomy interior was lit by an upended storm torch, which threw its beam up towards the cobwebbed roof. An angry sigh came from the shadows, and a girl�s voice asked, Is there nowhere I can go to be on my own?

Matthew rowed right into the chill of the boathouse, peering up to the source of the voice; and the girl dropped down to sit on the stone ledge above the water, dangling her bare legs. What do you want? she asked.

He knew Emma by sight: a pale, pretty girl who had been excused from sports at school. I wondered who was in the boathouse. You�re not going to take that boat out, are you? It looks rotten. And it hasn�t been on the water all summer, it will leak like anything.

Good. That�s exactly what I�m going to do. I�m going to drink the rest of this, she indicated a bottle, three-quarters full of amber liquid, which looked to Matthew like a fairly expensive whiskey; and when it gets dark, I�m going to row the boat straight out and wait for it to sink underneath me.

Why? Matthew stirred the water with his left oar, so that his boat swung horizontal with the entrance, and beached it, blocking the shabby old boat against the back wall. It would take more strength than he reckoned she had, to get it past without his co-operation.

Not for any reasons you could understand. Eff off, leave me alone.

Matthew climbed up on to the opposite ledge. What�s in the bottle?

Whiskey. I nicked it from my dad. He�s going to kill me anyway, if I don�t do it myself. Tastes foul.

Give us a slug of it, then.

Emma threw the bottle badly across the gap, and only with an effort did Matthew prevent it from landing in the water. The screw top spun open with a metallic ring, and he took a mouthful. It was like drinking lava, smoky and burning in his throat, and he spluttered.

Emma laughed. Give it back if you can�t take it.

On the assumption that she probably caught as well as she threw, Matthew climbed round on to Emma�s ledge, and handed her the bottle. She took a few ladylike sips and gave it back to him, prompting him to form part two of his rescue plan, which was to drink more of the stuff than she did. In smaller mouthfuls, though. He drank steadily, and let the silence do its work; even if she was not talking, she was still company, and he was lonely.

A silence with Helena would be relaxed, full of communication, shared pleasure in a task or a view; a near-telepathy borne out of knowing each other so well. The quality of Emma�s silence was anxious and unsettling. She fidgeted and sighed, and he watched her covertly, looking at the strange colour of her skin in the eerie white torchlight. Her hair was glossy black, falling over her shoulders like water over a weir. Her big inky eyes caught him looking at her, and she gave him a fiercely uncomfortable scowl.

Men! she spat at him, apparently at random. I am in so much trouble. Her eyes grew rounder, more liquid, and spilled tears down her cheeks. Matthew silently handed her the bottle. My mum is going to tell my dad I�m pregnant, and then he�s gonna kill me. Or throw me out. Or something. I�m so scared. And this stuff is making me feel sick.

Stop drinking it, then. He confiscated the whiskey back from her; it was now closer to half-empty. You shouldn�t be drinking it anyway, if you�re having a baby.

Don�t be so stupid. Give it back to me.

No.

I�m going to drown myself anyway, so it doesn�t matter. Unsteadily, she scrambled up into a crouch, and grabbed for the bottle.

Surprised at his own calm control, Matthew gently pushed her back down. Where�s the baby�s father?

I don�t know! Her volume was low, but her tone was an anguished scream, the words gushing and tumbling, slurring at the edges. He�s gone. He doesn�t know I�m pregnant, but that doesn�t make much difference, because I don�t know where he is, and he isn�t coming back, ever. If he knew how much I loved him, he would never have left me, but he wouldn�t let me tell him. He just left. She stopped, abruptly, to wipe the back of her hand across her face.

Matthew shifted closer, put his arm round her shoulders. She felt fragile, so thin that if he held her too tight, she would snap. I know, I know, he murmured.

How could you possibly know? Emma whispered, between sobs.

My girlfriend left me, he said, the whiskey allowing his tongue to form the unfamiliar phrase. I think she did know how much I love her, but she went anyway. She didn�t have any choice.

Emma shook her head, reluctant to take an interest in anyone else�s pain, but Matthew told her anyway, to distract her, and because once he started talking, he did not want to stop. He was going to grow into a reticent, self-contained man, but for that night he was garrulous, and Emma listened, and they both ignored the whiskey for a while.

Who was she? One of the village girls?

Matthew shook his head, and said her name with reverence: Helena Sumner.

Emma�s laugh crackled in the hollow air of the boathouse like a lightning storm.

For a thin few hours she had imagined Matthew as a glorious knight errant who could lasso the moon for her, stop the snow from melting into slush, and hold back the tide of gossiping voices. Staying in the village would mean encountering Vicky often, and who knew what further hostility was entrenched in the tiny community? The more information she gathered, the more her pastoral idyll trembled on its foundations.

The boat landing was deserted. Helena stepped on to the bottom rung of the five bar gate, and clung there, looking out at the frozen lake. The fringe of reeds spiked into the air like a metal fence, rigid in the still air, and the crisp silence was broken only by the squawk of a handful of crows, rising sudden and black from a field on the opposite shore.

The carpet of snow deadened Matthew�s footsteps, so that Helena was unaware of him until he leaned into the gate beside her. The power�s back on at your house, he said, and she acknowledged this fact with a nod. I was going to walk up Leas Hill and along the tops. Do you want to come?

They trudged together up the path behind Sumner Hall, which had been sheltered from the snow by the Hall�s overgrown garden. At the top they emerged into a silent meadow, where the landscape was altered by the drifts, but they remembered their way to the stile in the opposite wall. These were nursery paths for experienced walkers, wide and gently sloping, with the treacherous loose rocks smoothed away by the National Trust; the real climbers would be heading up Helvellyn with their ice axes and rope. Matthew led them from cairn to cairn, pointing out the occasional patch of ice; and Helena trailed behind, knowing that he would stop and wait for her before long. His brisk pace helped her not to feel the cold.

He did stop, when he reached the shelter of what had once perhaps been a shepherd�s mountain-top refuge. Within the walls it still smelled sheepy, from the straw and droppings on the beaten earth of the floor. They brushed a layer of snow off a large rock that formed part of the outside wall of the hut, and sat facing the view across the quiet valley.

It�s fallen down a bit more, since we were last here, Helena remarked.

Matthew produced a bottle of water from the deep pocket of his waterproof coat and unscrewed the lid. I talked too much last night, he said, passing it to Helena.

I don�t think you talked enough, she answered quietly. Vicky Royle was mouthing off in reception this morning. It would help me if I knew what her problem was.

Matthew grunted in disgust. Her problem, as it always has been, is jealousy. Are you rested enough? He stood up and offered her his hand, ungloved but warm, and pulled Helena to her feet. There�s a cold wind picking up from the south-west, so I propose that we drop down on to the lower terrace and cross the road on to Sharkey Raise. Agreed? He started along the path at a slower pace, without letting go of her hand, as though he had forgotten. Helena did not remind him.

Was Vicky a particular friend of Emma�s? Helena guessed.

Matthew did not answer.

Don�t tell me she had her eye on you. Is that why she was always so horrid to me?

Stop it, Matthew said, deviating suddenly from the path, to take a short cut towards the road. Helena stumbled, the snowy bracken catching at her legs, and hung on to his supporting hand until they emerged by a noisy stream. The fast waters remained unfrozen, but the stepping stones they usually used were impassable, not worth the risk of a boot full of icy water. Upstream, they were able to cross where the road made a bridge, and then they rejoined the path, which climbed more steeply, clinging to the side of the mountain.

They walked solidly, but their formerly companionable silence was now full of Helena�s unasked questions, and the whole range of answers that she was imagining. The discipline of walking had come back to her in the last few weeks, and now the paths were more difficult, requiring her to concentrate on each step, and control her breathing. She could manage a glance every so often at the lake, down to her left, but focusing on where Matthew was putting his feet, and treading in the same places, gradually took over from all her other thought processes.

They did not pause again until they reached the long, level expanse of the summit, marked with a tall cairn, where they were exposed again to the chill of the wind.

Matthew leaned against the leeward side of the cairn and reached again for her hand, pulling her in close to his body, with her back to him so that she was sheltered in his arms, but could see the vast, bleached view. Far below them, the lake stood in stasis, smudged by a fine fog that rose from the water at the crenulated edges of the ice. The patchwork of fields over on Greyrigg fell to the east, was stitched with the black thread of the dry stone walls, penning in a few uncomfortable, invisible sheep. Matthew�s childhood home was over that way, in the dip behind Badger Bank Farm where a few cottages clustered neatly between the trees. From this altitude, the village was visible straight ahead, some of the streetlights already blinking palely in anticipation of the early winter dusk, or perhaps never having been convinced that the sun had appeared at all that day.

Helena, in the cracked oilskin of her antique coat, envied Matthew the hi-tech warmth of his waterproof fleece, the arms of which folded around her, protecting her from the creeping shiver of cold that threatened her from the feet up. Neither of them felt the need to articulate the level of comfort they were both experiencing, exposed to the elements but safe, belonging. She felt a barely-perceptible sigh move his body, and the warmth of his breath in her hair.

Normally, I would head straight downhill from here, through Sharkey�s top meadow. I don�t really want to take you there, though.

Did you come up here with Emma? Deliberately, Helena kept her voice even, so that perhaps this time he would not snap at her or change the subject. She tried to make the question sound gentle.

Emma had severe asthma. Even if she could have made it up here, I wouldn�t have wanted to be so far from medical help, if she had needed it suddenly. It was a wasted precaution in the end.

What happened?

Oh, nothing spectacular, Matthew said. The heaviness in his tone contradicted the dismissive choice of words. She wasn�t going through a particularly bad phase, but she had a very sudden attack, and I couldn�t get her to the hospital quickly enough. Well, we got there all right, but because of the delay, she couldn�t recover. So she died.

There was a long silence, illustrated by a brief gust of snowflakes that passed quickly by. Helena felt Matthew brushing the flakes from her hair.

I don�t remember ever meeting her, she said.

Perhaps you didn�t. She was older than me, so you wouldn�t have encountered her at school. And no, she wasn�t a particular friend of Vicky�s. She had her own trouble with the village voices, and those good ladies who choose to appoint themselves to the panel of judgement.

Helena could not resist throwing out another guess. Because of you? How old is Kate? She could not recalculate the timescale to her satisfaction; the child must surely have been conceived in the weeks after she had left. No wonder the villagers judged her harshly.

We should be getting back. I want to get some logs in for you, before it gets too dark. Gently, Matthew pushed her away from him, and straightened his body.

Aware of the numbness in her toes, Helena agreed that they should start walking. But you�re avoiding my question again, she said, following him down the narrow path towards the farm. Slow down a bit, it�s steep here.

Matthew was already several yards ahead, and Helena could not hear the words that he threw back at her over his shoulder; they were whisked into another grey flurry of snow, a drift that was caught up in the wind and tossed down the mountain with Matthew�s confession. When she caught up with him, he was looking at her with expectant aggression, a black frown twisted into his face.

I didn�t hear you, she said, breathless from scrambling through the bracken.

Kate is not my daughter, he repeated.

Helena finished breakfast and stepped into the lobby to pay her bill. She recognised the complaining tones of Vicky Royle, who appeared to work at the hotel in some sort of lowly capacity, judging by the nylon housecoat she was wearing over her jade green tracksuit that morning, and the fact that she was just in the act of accepting a sheaf of papers from the receptionist. Helena ignored her, just like she would have done at school.

The receptionist was the same pony-tailed girl who had allocated her the room the previous evening. Matt dealt with it all, she said, waving away Helena�s credit card.

Something funny going on there, Vicky Royle said, in a stage whisper to the receptionist.

Helena froze, her eyes fixed on the reddening face of the girl behind the desk. The hormones that fed her fight-or-flight response, instead of being locked into their usual fight position, made her fingers tremble and her tongue feel twice its normal size inside her mouth. Nonetheless, and without considering her actions, she turned slowly to look down at Vicky, who could have matched Helena for height, but instead slouched in her trainers, leaning on the desk.

If there�s something you wanted to share with me, Vicky, I�m listening. She knew from bitter experience that Vicky might not be all that bright, but she had an extra-sensory perception for fear, even when the shake was not audible in one�s voice.

Only the few seconds� pause divulged Vicky�s surprise at being faced down. The idea of you and Matt Hayes playing happy families sickens me, she said, and stalked off, saving Helena the enormous effort of producing a cool response.

I was overwhelmed by this feeling that something so incredibly important had happened to me; so significant, but so unfinished. Even before I started the new school, I felt different. And then, from the moment they heard my northern accent -

Which you�ve lost.

Survival. Part of my protective coating. Matthew�s forehead was crossed with deep lines, which darkened into a frown as he regarded her over the debris of their meal. That bloody boat, he said. If only I had been at home�

I guess you never learned to deal with the what-ifs, Helena said gently.You just can�t live like that, you have to put it behind you. Despite herself, she wondered what it would be like to wake up in his arms, but found it hard to imagine, because she was not in the habit of waking up in anyone�s arms; she tended to get involved with men who were unwilling, or unable, to stay the night. Under the table, her leg rested against his. Childhood sweethearts never survive university anyway, she said. Something else would have come between us sooner or later. Emma Sharkey, for instance�

He leaned forward, putting down his glass and glaring at her steadily. The main thing Emma and I had in common was that neither of us found it so easy to forget the people who had left us behind, he said, in a low growl.

I didn�t wilfully forget about you, and I didn�t move on to bigger and better things. I just couldn�t do anything about it, I couldn�t process all this new information, so in the end, I just put it away and didn�t think about it anymore.

I know, I know, I�m sorry. It�s very late, he said, standing up. I need to get back to the farm.

Helena followed him out of the dining room, feeling the wine slosh into her limbs as she moved, making her unsteady. Matthew took her arm, and all her senses breathed in the comforting roughness of his thick shirt against her face.

They stood in the darkened doorway of the hotel, just out of reach of the deceptively delicate swirl of the snowflakes, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke any words, but seemed just to read each other�s faces. Only the tips of his fingers remained on her arm, but she felt them throughout her body.

I�ll come and pick you up tomorrow, we�ll see if the power is back on at the Gatehouse, he said, and she nodded agreement, willing to comply with anything he suggested at that moment. Goodnight, Nell. She moved her head as he bent to press his lips to her cheek, so that his kiss fell in her hair, and as she remained frozen in the doorway, he turned away and was gone.

She walked slowly up the stairs to her room, and locked herself in, drawing the heavily floral curtains over the unceasing snowstorm. She sank on to the tightly made-up bed in a cloud of alcohol and romance, indulging, as she sometimes allowed herself to do, in a fantasy conversation, maybe a little gentle kissing, with an imaginary, perfect man, whose warm body would curl around hers, protecting her while she slept, and whose blue eyes would already be smiling at her when she awoke. Of course, the man was not quite so imaginary as he normally was.

She could count a handful of relationships and encounters, but she felt strongly about none of them, not even the last, disastrous affair that she had returned to Leasdale to forget. She closed her eyes and was accompanied into sleep by the thought that it was not that she had never loved anyone, but that she had never allowed herself to be loved.

Helena shook her head as if to clear it. It was the boat, she said slowly. We leapt apart when we heard the door go, so sudden and guilty, and you kicked over a pile of oars, which knocked the winch. Thank goodness it was the fibreglass boat, and it didn�t have far to fall. One of the wooden ones might have killed you.

I shrieked, and Sally, who had walked in on us, slapped me, which on reflection was a bit unnecessary� I wasn�t hysterical, I was just frightened� We moved the boat, and you were lying so still that in my panic I thought you were dead. She sent me for Doctor Roydhouse, and I ran all the way into the village, to his house, so I was a wreck when I got there, could barely speak� Helena�s memory was unrolling for her like a film, the colours over-exposed by the summer sun, and the dialogue muffled by the years of successfully forgetting about it all. Now she could hear the diesel rattle of the doctor�s car, feel the sticky leather of the seat beneath her thighs. He pulled up at the boatyard and pushed past her into the shed, where Matthew had still not come round. Helena heard him mutter to Sally that there was nothing broken, but that he would need to get him to Casualty.

He and Sally lifted you into the back of the car, and that was the last time I saw you. She sent me home, but I couldn�t bear to go indoors or face mum and dad. I hid in the gardens of the Hall for as long as I dared, trying to calm down and sort myself out. I didn�t know how I could speak to anyone, when I felt so new and strange inside, but at the same time so frightened and worried about you. I didn�t go in until I got cold, and wanted food� I think we need some more wine.

The waiter had taken away their plates, and the two of them were left discreetly alone in their dimly-lighted corner of the dining room. In other circumstances, Helena might have found been able to discern some romance in the setting, but now she could not tell if the compelling urge she felt to reach out and touch Matthew�s hand was just an echo of her younger self, or the inevitable result of sharing a bottle of wine with a man, in the cosy warmth of the hotel, with a snowstorm swirling outside. She pushed the urge away forcibly. If you were so much in love with me, Matthew, how on earth did you suddenly find yourself with a wife and child? It can�t have happened that long after I left.

Leaning back in his chair, Matthew did not answer. He rubbed at his neck as though he might be able to release the tension that wrapped his body. Re-living the past in order to refresh Helena�s memory was not releasing him from it, certainly; it was only revealing further complications and difficulties that were bound to invade his delicately balanced world. He reached for his wineglass. I don�t think you have finished filling in the part where you abandon me with such ease that you don�t even bother to check that I�m still alive, he said. And never wrote to me, so I could never find out where you were.

I did write, Helena said, frowning, remembering. I wrote so much. I filled hundreds of pages with longing for you. I never posted any of it, though. The more I wrote, the more hopeless it seemed. It was made very clear to me that we wouldn�t be coming back, and that I was too young to understand why. I did know you were still alive, though.

I was in so much trouble when I went home. At first I thought they must know what we�d done, because mum looked grey and stricken, and dad yelled at me to know where I�d been all this time. Then they yelled at each other for a bit, which I refused to stay and listen to again. I�d heard it all so many times, and they really didn�t need an audience.

Helena had her foot on the bottom step, intending to escape to her room and come back later in search of something to eat, after her dad had blustered himself out, and her mum was at the stage of sniffing noisily in the kitchen.

Get back here, Will Sumner growled. There�s something we need to talk to you about.

Helena turned slowly and bravely cast a slightly insolent look at her father. What?

She had blown her chance of having the news broken to her gently, if it could ever be gentle to learn at a day�s notice that they were moving hundreds of miles south, with no plans to return. She sat down on the stairs, shaking her head, refusing to believe. Mum, why?

She realised that the grim look on her mother�s face was not a reaction to any new horror that Helena might have caused, but a new determination, which gave her no hope at all of appeal. Because your father and I can no longer live together in this village. We need a fresh start, if we�re going to have any hope of keeping this family together.

But� tomorrow? How can we be going tomorrow? Why haven�t you told me before?

We didn�t want to spoil your summer holiday, love. We�ve been waiting for the new house to be ready. We would have told you yesterday, but you camped out last night and I didn�t see you.

Helena stood up. I�m not going, she announced. I can�t leave… my, my friends� you can�t make me. She was finding it very hard to control her breathing, and she could feel her cheeks burning red.

Don�t be silly, love. Most of your stuff is packed. Do you want me to come and help with the rest? Her mother took a step towards the staircase.

No! I�m not going! Helena turned and ran up the stairs to her room, slamming the door and sliding the brass bolt across. She fell face down on her old metal bed and felt real, frightening hysteria welling up inside her, taking over her body so that she panicked and screamed, slamming her fists into the mattress. She felt herself divide in two, a part detaching from the rest, watching coolly as the remaining part of her howled wordlessly, observed her heart beating painfully inside the body that sobbed on the bed for hours.

Much later, her mother tapped at the door, waking Helena from a foggy doze; and wheedled her way into the room with a sandwich and a glass of milk. She had obviously made up her mind to speak to her daughter as an adult, and was now wearing a hopeful woman-to-woman expression. She sat beside Helena on the bed, and they leaned against the wall, each unable to meet the other�s eye. I�m sorry you�re so upset, she began, braving the sardonic glance that Helena shot her. It�s reached the stage where we had to take action, you see. Your father� I told him that I was going to leave, with you, if he didn�t want to come with me.

Why would you do that? Helena asked sullenly, ignoring the years of shouting and slamming doors that she had witnessed.

Lily Sumner tried again. Your father� he has been having an affair. He�

Helena remembered that stilted sentence for the rest of her life, but at the time it sounded just like a line from a bad novel, too pathetically weak to express the whole story behind it, and the consequences that she was only just starting to realise.

He has had lots of affairs, in fact. I think. They talk about it in the village. They talk about me, and I just can�t� She started to cry again, twisting her fingers as though that would help her pull herself together.

There was a long period of quiet, during which Helena wished her mother would go away, so that she could try to climb out of her window and walk round the lake to Matthew�s house, and find out if he was alright. So why don�t you leave him? she asked eventually, to break the discomfiting silence.

One day, you�ll understand what it means to love someone. Just be thankful that you�re still too young, Lily said.

Helena sighed with heavy exasperation. There was an accident at the boat landing today, she said quietly. Matthew had to go to hospital.

What happened? her mother was not at all interested.

The new boat fell off the winch and hit him. Mum, please don�t make me go away without knowing if he�s alright? She sold her co-operation much too cheaply, because she recognised that her choices were severely limited. The detached part of herself still railed against her weak inability to fight such a malevolent fate, but without Matthew, she did not know how to start fighting. And that was the beginning of being without Matthew.

I�m sorry I was so miserable with you the other day, up at the house; I was angry with myself for being unable to resist coming to see you. And with you, for having been here for days without trying to see me. It seems incredible that you don�t remember the same things as me. With Kate around, it�s been impossible to forget you.

I know for certain that if you had left a year earlier, I would have got over it. I would only have missed the you that I had known, and not the person you would have grown up to be; and I wouldn�t have regretted the way my world would have been so different if you had stayed. Not many people find themselves, a lifetime later, face to face with the path they might have taken.

You were my shadow and my pet and my playmate, for how many years, seven? I was married to Emma for nearly twice that long, and of course I could never, ever mention your name to her, but� well, that�s not this story. I�m sorry if I ramble on a bit, but I�ve never said any of this to anyone before, and as you can probably tell, I�ve thought about it a lot.

I don�t know why you were always such a soft target for the bullies. I remember once you taking my detention with me, because you didn�t want to go home on the bus on your own. It didn�t do you any favours, having me to hide behind, because you just got it worse when I wasn�t there, never learned to stand up for yourself. They were jealous. I told you that, but you never believed me. It must have been so hard for you when you left, maybe that�s why you�ve forgotten; you just don�t want to remember. Or you�ve been to so many new places, seen things, met people, and weren�t stuck with the same landscape every single day of your life, places that constantly remind me of you. Your horizons are so broad now, that I must be nothing but a dot, if I feature at all. We were growing out of being playmates, that summer. It wasn�t a sudden change in either of us; I just gradually became aware that you looked different, and you looked differently at me.

I have a photograph of you in my head. You were standing in the water, by the jetty, one evening. You can�t have been working that day, because you were wearing a dress. It was like a pinafore, it buttoned all the way down the front, and you were getting the hem of it wet, even though you held it bunched up around your knees. Your hair was untidy, straggling around your neck, and your skin was brown from being outdoors all summer. You didn�t know I was leaning against the wall of the big shed, watching you, but I knew what you were doing, standing in the shallows with the soft mud oozing in between your toes, watching the late afternoon sunlight sparkling on the water.

Do you remember how we used to camp on the island? We took your dad�s tent, and my mum would give us food, and we rowed across after closing time and made a fire, and sat up late just talking for hours, while the shadow of Leas Hill crept across the lake. The island at night was like our own kingdom, a great big den that no-one else was interested in, and we had to clear all the evidence of ourselves away each morning and get back to the boat landing before it opened.

We didn�t spend as many nights there, that last summer, I think because Sally seemed to disapprove, and we had to keep on her good side, to keep our jobs. Our parents didn�t care, didn�t seem to notice what we were getting up to. Your mum and dad were mostly preoccupied, of course, and I was old enough to look after myself.

Sally left us to lock up that night, and after she�d gone, you rowed us over to the island in Lily, because she was always your favourite boat. I�ve still got her, but she�s not in use anymore. She must have been fifty years old then, so she was well ready for retirement. We dragged her high up on the beach, so you wouldn�t worry about her floating away, and pitched that old tent in our usual spot, where no-one would be able to see our fireplace from the shore. I built us a fire, but I didn�t light it, because the air was still so warm that it stuck to our skin. It was too hot in the tent, so we spread our tarp out on the grass and piled our sleeping bags on it, to lounge on until it cooled down a bit. You lay on your back, looking out for the first stars, eating leftover sandwiches from the caf�, and joking at me for bringing them, for being the hunter-gatherer. I said it was going to rain, and you gave me one of those sarcastic looks that I don�t think you ever used on anyone else. I always think that you were more yourself when you were with me, and I was more myself. I feel like I�ve forgotten how to express myself, the way I did with you.

I joined you on the tarp, and you named the constellations that you could see above us, as if I hadn�t taught them to you. The sky was watery blue, and felt so heavy and vast; and there were streaky clouds over Grayrigg, and we were both ignoring the fact that that was usually a sign of a change in the weather.

You smiled at me, and it was the most natural thing in the world, to lean down and kiss your mouth. You know I�d never kissed anyone before, but something inside me was telling me that I wanted to be that close to you, closer than we�d ever been. I wanted to taste you and touch you, and tell you something that I just didn�t have the words for. And I was seventeen and you were wearing a thin dress and stretching yourself out on the grass, and giving me some sort of a knowing look. We grew up in the split second before our lips touched, that moment when we knew what it meant.

And then great, slow drops of rain fell from nowhere, and we untangled ourselves as though we were surprised to find ourselves tangled, and grabbed the tarp and the sleeping bags and threw it all into the tent. We didn�t speak to each other, we just did what had to be done to keep everything dry, and then we were underneath the canvas with all our stuff in a heap, and there was a dark growl of thunder in the next valley, and we lay next to each other. Your eyes were shining and your breathing was audible even over the rainfall, inches away from our faces through the open door of the tent.

I stroked your face, and kissed you again, and you wrapped your thin little arm around my neck and kissed me right back. I�m not going to describe it all in pornographic detail to you; for goodness sake, Nell, you were there. I can�t believe you have no memory of it. In all these years, have you never thought once about how you lost your virginity? Nights I�ve gone to sleep remembering how fragile your body felt underneath mine, how soft and warm your skin was, and the look of absolute adoration in your eyes. I felt like you belonged to me completely. You were mine. When I hear soft rainfall on grass, and during summer storms, I think about you.

The thunder and lightning went on for most of the night, rumbling round and round the lake, as if we were the centre of the storm. I asked you if you I had hurt you, and you just nodded and clung to me, and we didn�t talk much, we just lay there in each other�s arms, being part of each other and part of everything around us.

I rowed us back in the morning, because you were hopeless. You were in a daze, smiling and sleepy, and we couldn�t help touching each other. All the same things that we normally did had changed overnight, so that your fingers, that had brushed against my skin a thousand times before, were suddenly charged with electricity so that they made the hairs on my arms stand on end. The half hour when you went home to wash and change was endless, even though I had plenty to do, to open up before Sally arrived. By the time she got there, we were sitting on the end of the jetty eating bacon sandwiches, and we wondered if she could see the change that we had gone through in the night.

That was our last day working together, and we spent it in blissful ignorance of the fact that the future we had glimpsed in the night was going to be over almost as soon as it had begun. We must have driven Sally scatty, taking our breaks together so that we could sneak into the shed to kiss, and the tourists were queuing at the hut with no-one to help them in and out of the boats for five minutes.

At the time, I hated it being such a long day, but now I�m glad. It was frustrating as hell, you in your shorts, your legs all brown, shooting me smiles full of meaning, your whispered promise that we would take the tent out again that night. You were full of quiet happiness, and I resented having to work all day, when I just wanted to grab you and hold you so tight that I was breathing for both of us.

Finally, Sally closed the gate, and no-one else could come in. She offered us a cup of tea while we waited for the last two boats, but we suddenly found an urgent chore that we had to see to, in the boatshed. We slammed the door and the pent-up laughter burst out of us, and we leaned against Annette, the new fibreglass boat, that I�d winched up to the roof out of the way. We calmed ourselves just far enough to start kissing again; you tasted of hot summer and clear fresh water. I know I was running my fingers up inside your t-shirt, and you were stroking my neck, and I remember you whispering into my mouth even while I was kissing you. And that�s it. That�s all I can tell you.

She did not mind being holed up, safe in her nest, with the storm going on around her, even though there were moments when the wind screeched down the chimney, splattering the carpet with wet soot. When it got dark, which was early, she moved back to the hearth and closed the shutters.

In the night, the cold woke her up, and forced her back downstairs to make a bed by the fire. She tucked her pyjamas into her boots and pulled on a coat over her jumper and dressing gown, and went outside to get some coal. There wasn�t very much left, which concerned her somewhat; the coalman might not be able to get up the drive, if it was deeply snowed over. Throughout her adult life, she had been certain of her own self-sufficiency, and had never found it difficult to occupy herself without recourse to the television or other people. This came from the same set of skills that refused to like a song just because it was number one, or to wear rah-rah skirts just because the other girls in her class did. She had learned to like her own company when she had not been able to find anyone to share it with, because she was too new and everyone already had their own friends, and no-one seemed to be on her wavelength. It was her own fault, for being a northerner, a country girl, and inevitably a loner without Matthew; she knew that she never really tried to fit in at her new school, and by the time she got to university, she had forgotten that she should.

She was not discomposed by the utter isolation of the increasingly snowbound house, but she was very, very cold. She spent another day reading by the fire, letting it burn low occasionally, to conserve her supply of fuel, and fell asleep under her pile of blankets, some time during the afternoon.

It was dark when she woke up, and she was disorientated, because neither heat nor light came from the fireplace, and the room was full of silence. For a moment she could not gather herself enough to stand up and switch on the light. After a few moments of near-panic, she stretched her stiff legs down to the floor, and edged blindly towards the doorway to flick the switch.

Nothing. She tried the light-switch in the hall with no success; the power had gone.

She disliked feeling about in the kitchen cupboards, and wished now that she had been more scrupulous about cleaning them all out, because her fingertips were deep in dust that she could not see. She located her torch, and some stubs of candles, which she stood on the mantelpiece, before going outside to bring in more coal and logs. The wind had dropped, and the snow was once again drifting prettily down into the yard, but she felt less kindly towards it now. She was glad to shut the door against it, and turn her attention to the fire.

Once it was blazing again, she went upstairs and looked out, towards the village. She did not know if she should be able to see other lights from here, or if the trees would be in the way; but all was darkness, and there was very little moonlight. It was impossible to tell if the power was out across the valley, or if it was only that the cables that fed the house had been damaged; and therefore it was impossible to know how long it would take for someone to notice it, and fix it. Again, she suppressed a knot of panic, and told herself that her only option was to stay here, by the fire, and wait at least for daylight.

She ate some chocolate, and sat staring into the flames, scorching one side of her body and then the other, because as long as the fire was burning, she would feel brave. Maybe she should walk to the village, see if they had electricity there, or if not, at least find out what was happening. She could probably count on getting some sort of welcome at the bakery, but she was not sure she wanted to see Mrs Dixon. She wondered how cold she would have to get before she changed her mind about facing the gossiping old woman.

She dozed off again, and was woken by loud hammering on the door, which frightened her. She lit the cold corridor with her torch, and deep shadows danced towards her from the doorways, so that despite her determination to be strong, her trembling, hurrying fingers fumbled with the bolt.

Helena? she heard Matthew�s anxious voice, and then saw his face, blinking in the powerful torchlight, and his hand shielding his eyes. He pushed the door wider and stepped purposefully into the hallway, bringing with him a feeling of safety and a gust of snowflakes. Are you alright? He put a gloved hand on her shoulder. You�re shaking.

No� it�s cold out here. Shut the door. The sitting room�s warmer. What are you doing here?

He lodged his own torch in the banisters, where it cast an eerie pale light towards the ceiling. There�s power in the village, but it�s out at Townend Farm and all the houses along the Lake Road. I was worried about you here on your own.

Unable to see his face in the gloom, Helena felt for a moment as though fifteen years had not erased her status as his fragile, dependent friend; fear and hunger, and the penetrating chill in her bones conspired to make her want to cry, and she had to summon reserves of strength, take a deep breath, and fight it. I don�t need to be rescued, she said, with a cold little laugh.

Have you eaten anything this evening? he asked, and she shook her head. The generator�s working up at Sharkey Farm, but obviously I can�t take you there, he said quietly, almost to himself. Get your things, we�ll go down to the Black Sheep.

She repeated: I don�t need to be rescued.

Well think of it as a date, then, he said, sarcastically. Get your things, and you can tidy yourself up when you get there.

Don�t speak to me as if I�m a stupid child. I�m not your little girl.

There was stillness in the hallway. Rationally, Helena knew that it made no sense to argue with Matthew; she really did not want to stay here on her own in the cold. The heavy torch she was holding made her arm ache, as she stood trying to discern his expression, waiting for an angry response.

Did we always fight like this? he asked, calmly. She could hear him smile.

That�s one of the many things that I can�t remember, she answered.

Compliantly, she put a few items into a bag, and he carried it down to his Landrover, which was waiting at the bottom or the drive. Helena swept her torch across the road, amazed at how deeply the snow had drifted at the edges, and how neatly it was piled along the top of the dry stone walls. Do you live at Sharkey Farm now? She felt shy about asking him, but could not bear the utter silence of the white-blanketed road.

Yes, they just about tolerate me up there. You�ve heard about me and Emma, then? He flicked the wipers on to clear the snow off the screen, but it immediately filled again with the big sticky flakes.

Annie mentioned it. I�m sorry� Her sympathy sat in the frozen air of the vehicle, unacknowledged.

They went in through the residents� door of the Black Sheep, where Helena was greeted as another refugee from the hills and shown to a third floor room, from where the vista was white in all directions. The warmth seemed doubly luxurious, soaking through her as she brushed her hair and put some make-up on.

Matthew was waiting for her downstairs, looking big and untidy in the peachy glow of the thickly-carpeted reception, where he leaned on the desk chatting with the young man who had given her the room. Helena let him sweep her into the dining room, which was sparsely populated, although busier than one might normally expect it to be at this time of year. An older couple nodded hello to him as they walked past, and looked at her with interest, before returning to their coffee and the low mumble of their conversation. In the corner, a woman�s laugh cut off abruptly, its silent echo giving Helena a shiver of paranoia.

They ordered steaks and a bottle of wine, and then found themselves looking at each other across the table, with no small-talk at all at their disposal, or possibly too much, and no idea of where to begin.

She tried to see the younger Matthew, her Matthew, in the lines of the face of the stranger at her table. She had never before seen him drive a car, or drink beer; and his voice sounded deeper, and his shoulders were squarer than they had been at seventeen. He gazed steadily back at her with pale blue eyes that she knew so well, and she knew he was assessing her in exactly the same way.

What do you do for a living? he asked her.

She told him very briefly about her years in corporate finance, but felt that she could not possibly make her indoor life sound interesting to him, or impress him with her rise through the ranks of a world he had never had cause to encounter. It�s not very exciting, she tailed off, leaning back to let the waiter put plates down on the table.

Alright, Matt, the waiter said, skulking off after leaving them an opened bottle of wine.

Matthew gave him a surly nod, and turned back to Helena. And I suppose the big question is, what are you doing back in Leasdale? It�s been a hot topic in the village, according to our Kate.

Helena poured some wine into his glass. I suppose it is a big question, isn�t it? she said, evasively, and then sighed. I was running away, leaving a mess behind me. I thought it would be the ideal place to get some time to think, and get over myself. She looked up from her plate, met his eyes, and laughed thinly. I�m beginning to realise that I was quite wrong; I�m in far more turmoil now than I was when I arrived. There are all these dark hints about my family, and then you were so angry with me for leaving, which I couldn�t help; and on top of it all, I can�t remember a thing about the last few weeks that we lived here. Really can�t remember. It�s just a blank.

Matthew shook his head. So I�ve been living with it for the both of us, all these years. I can remember everything as if it happened yesterday.

She considered it absolutely necessary to travel, and had been following motorway signs for The North as if they were her personal guides and guardians. Departing from the Kendal bypass towards Windermere, the grey curtains descended across the road, enfolding everything in an icy murk of sleet. The sun, which had made little effort all day, gave in altogether, and Helena crawled forwards in the dark.

The village looked, if anything, more closed than it had the first time she had driven through it, only a couple of weeks earlier. The Christmas lights had been taken down, so nothing illuminated the green except a whimpering sodium streetlight, partially obscured by the branch of a tree.

By morning, the sleet had turned into large, purposeful flakes of snow, which seemed to be shovelled from above the house like bad movie scenery. There was already a drift several inches deep around the wheels of the car, but Helena had no need to go anywhere. She was not expecting a response from the recruitment agency before the end of the week, and they had her postal address. She pulled on an extra layer of clothing and wrapped a big shawl around herself, under her coat; and set off for a circuit of the lake. It had a different expression in every kind of weather, and she particularly wanted to see it today.

As she had been driving, she had continued to try to pull back her memories, and knit together that last, lost summer. Her yearning to get back, when she had been away for less than two days, triggered strong recollections of feeling the same way once before. Walking through her old town to the pub had reminded her how much she had hated the place, and although she acknowledged that hate was a strong, peculiarly teenaged reaction to a location, she still could discover no warm feelings towards it.

She thought too about what her mother had said, how she had expressed Helena�s own feeling of shame, the desire to escape from accusing whispers. She saw herself now as lucky, that her father�s estate had taken so long to untangle, that she had only now come into possession of the house, just when she had needed somewhere to run to.

Her footsteps crunched on the snow-veiled pebbles of the strip of beach, and she wondered if it would be cold enough for the lake to freeze over. One year, she had been able to walk all the way to the island, clinging to her mother�s hand and listening to the terrifying creaks of the ice beneath their feet. Some of the village boys had taken their bicycles on to the ice and ridden around, leaving swirling tracks like the traces of giant figure skaters.

The shallow pools and streams along the shore were frozen, but the lake itself still moved freely. Snowflakes continued to fall wetly on her face, soaking into her scarf, and the sky was darkly laden with yet more snow. It bulged like a flooded ceiling. There was no sound of wildlife; the ducks must be roosting in the shelter of the reeds. All Helena could hear was the sodden swish of her own feet on the frozen mud of the path.

She stood at the end of the lake once again, gazing up the valley towards the village, which was screened by a belt of snow-burdened trees and the outbuildings of the run-down hotel. Cold, clean air filled her lungs, and she felt the thrill of it all through her body. It felt good to be here, in this moment, looking at the most beautiful scenery in the world. She felt capable and strong, and knew that only her pride, and not her heart, had been dented; and that that was recoverable.

Work was really the only thing that she and Helena could comfortably talk to each other about. After her interview, Helena drove out of London and took up the offer of a bed for the night at her mother�s house. That always-available bed that she was so often reminded about was actually her own, but the room had been transformed very shortly after she had moved out. It was tastefully muted now, in a silent reproach to the blue-tac stains that had been left behind when her defiant collection of posters had been ripped down.

They walked to a nearby pub to eat and share a very pleasant bottle of Chablis, and discuss the possibility of Helena moving to Geneva. It was not until they set off home, walking along a busy suburban road, that, assisted by the wine, she felt able to mention Leasdale.

Her mother�s response was I don�t want to talk about it.

There are some things that I think I really need to know, Helena persisted, but a car roared past, muffling her words, and she had to repeat herself. She did not sound so carefully determined the second time.

Trust me, there�s nothing that you need to drag up after fifteen years. It�s history.

Helena tried to think of something peripheral to what her mother must have considered to be the main event; maybe she could prompt a conversation in a roundabout way. Why was Matthew in hospital? she asked.

What do you mean?

Matthew was in hospital when we left, wasn�t he?

Yes.

Well, why?

Her mother gave a small, mirthless laugh. How funny. Matthew got knocked on the head, and you�re the one who can�t remember it. Still, you were very young.

How did he get knocked on the head? What happened?

You seriously don�t remember, do you? It was an accident in the boatyard. You were there when it happened. In fact, you were the only person there, which is no surprise, as the pair of you were so inseparable, always. I don�t know what happened, because you wouldn�t tell us, presumably because you couldn�t actually bear to speak to us for weeks and weeks.

Oh.

They walked in silence for a few more minutes, past rows of neat, safe little houses; and, re-imbued with a long-lost snobbery about houses built from Lakeland slate, Helena felt repelled by the anonymity of the ready-made lives that these buildings represented.

She realised that if she got the job in Geneva, she would have to make a decision about the house. Until that point, her ownership of it had not been quite real; on an emotional level, she had only been camping in the draughty old place. Now it pulled at her like the north star, and if it had not been close to midnight and half a bottle of wine too late, she would have been strongly tempted to set off home right then. As it was, she would face the long drive in the morning.

Her mother let them in through the double-glazed door, and offered a cup of tea with just enough reluctance in her tone, so that Helena knew to refuse it.

I will just say one thing, her mother said, quietly. I can imagine what it�s been like for you to go back there after all this time; I�ve thought about it often enough myself. I�m sure Dora Dixon has found every excuse to gossip to you and about you, and drop hints right left and centre. But please, Helena, you�ve had relationships, you know that things go bad sometimes. Can you not understand what it was like, when everyone in the village was talking about me, all shaking their heads and claiming to have known what a terrible mistake I was making. I couldn�t move without people pitying me to my face and judging me behind my back. Can�t you see why I wanted to get away?

Helena understood that sentiment very well indeed; it seemed that she had escaped to Leasdale for the very reason that her parents had escaped from it.

Her mother continued: Then you�ll know how badly I want to forget that place and those people, and how much I wish they would forget me. And unapologetically, she went off to bed.