'Nothing.' I glance around. I'm all on edge. 'Did you go upstairs again, to your office?'

Art shakes his head, going back to his phone. 'Nope.'

'Oh.' My pulse is skipping about. Why on earth would he lie about that? 'I thought I heard the floorboards creaking.'

'Those things?' Art raises a disdainful eyebrow. 'Those bloody things have got a mind of their own. In fact, didn't you say you were going to get them sorted this year?' He grins at my recalcitrance and pats the duvet. 'Are you coming to bed?'

I get in and take off my thick socks. Maybe I imagined hearing the floorboards. I am certainly jittery enough.

Art turns out the light and lies back on the pillow with a sigh.

'Art?'

'Mmm?'

I've been thinking about the day, a few months into the pregnancy, when after obsessive research into alternative birth options, I found the Fair Angel private maternity hospital and we went to meet the obstetrician who would oversee my pregnancy and labour.

'Did you ever do any background checks on Dr Rodriguez you know, basic research on where he came from, or his qualifications or his circumstances?'

'No,' Art says after a second. 'Why?'

'Well, I guess I'm thinking how much did we really know about him?'

Art snorts with derision and turns over so his back is towards me. 'Rodriguez had an impressive CV and recommendations coming out of his backside, Gen. He showed us that stuff and a bunch of personal thank you letters the first time we met him. Fair Angel had a brilliant reputation, too.'

'But-'

'Gen, don't go there.' Art pauses, then turns over again to plant a swift kiss on my cheek. 'Goodnight.'

''Night.'

Seconds later Art's breathing evens and deepens, but it's a long time before I fall asleep myself.

I stared at Ginger Tall's fist. A bit more wee came out of me. It felt warm at first, then cold. I couldn't stop it.

I looked down. The rain jabbed at the back of my neck. Run, I thought. Run away. But they were blocking my way back to the fence.

'You're a loser, Pig Face.' Ginger Tall's fingers on the hand that wasn't a fist hurt my arm.

Broken Tooth took my other arm, pressing and twisting the skin.

I wanted to yell them away but my yells were stuck in my throat. Ginger Tall moved so close I could feel warm breath in my ear. 'You're an ugly, pig-faced loser.'

'A fucking loser,' Broken Tooth added.

I knew that was a bad word. I stared at the wet stones by my feet, waiting for it to be over. The fist punched into my tummy. It hurt. I closed my eyes. Another punch. Another. Then it stopped.

I held my breath. Ginger Tall's shoes turned. Broken Tooth's shoes turned. Then there were just my shoes. I stared at them so hard my eyes burned. I looked at my trousers. There was a small dark patch right in the front of them so if anyone looked they would know I had done a bad wee.

Down there felt damp and sticky and cold.

I put my hand over so no one would see. Then I crawled back under the fence.

CHAPTER FIVE.

I'm still asleep when Morgan arrives the next morning. Her brisk, sharp rings on the doorbell rouse me from my bed. I grab a cardigan from the chair, pull it on over my pyjamas and stagger downstairs wiping the sleep from my eyes.

I can see Morgan's slender outline through the glass in the front door. Instinctively I glance at the hall mirror. My hair is sticking up in different directions and yesterday's make-up is smudged under my eyes. I hesitate, making a half-hearted effort to wipe my face with my fingers and run my hand through my hair, trying to smooth it down.

The doorbell rings again.

It's hopeless. Whatever I do, I'm never going to match up to her. With a sigh I open the door.

Considering she's just arrived off a transatlantic flight, Morgan looks amazing. She's dressed in a fitted black suit with a real-fur trim, black-and-cream kitten heels and a leather clutch bag. The bottom of her sleek dark hair forms a perfect line. Two huge suitcases stand beside her on the front door step.

'Gen, honey,' Morgan coos, looking me up and down. 'You look fabulous.'

She's not a great liar. Even as she's speaking I can see her eyes widening with the horror of my appearance. That's Morgan all over, though. She can't help but come across as condescending, even when she's trying to be warm and friendly. It's an unsettling personality trait and one which I'm certain partially explains why, at nearly forty-two, the woman has never had a boyfriend for longer than three months.

'I just woke up,' I explain. 'I didn't sleep well last night.'

'Oh, no.' Morgan's voice softens into concern. 'I'm so sorry but I did say what time I was arriving and . . .' She checks her elegant, diamond-studded watch, 'it is after ten.'

'I know,' I say, tugging the cardigan more tightly around me. There's an egg stain on the lapel. Great.

'So how are the party plans going?' Morgan says brightly, stepping into the hallway. She glances back at her suitcases, still standing on the doorstep.

In Morgan's home in Edinburgh, her holiday homes in Martha's Vineyard and Tuscany or in any of the fancy hotels she normally stays at there would be men to help carry in the bags.

'Party plans are going fine.' I reach over the threshold and drag Morgan's two suitcases into the hall. Art can lug them upstairs later.

There's an anxious knot in my chest all day, but I have no time to think about any of the stuff that was keeping me awake last night. Morgan though she claims only to want to help is full of demands: 'Do you have any juice without the pulp?' . . . 'I don't want to interfere but do you really think you've bought enough canapes?' . . . 'I can't see any bags of ice in your freezer, should we order some in?' . . . 'Do you mind showing me where you keep the towels? I'm so sorry but I need to change the one you've given me, my skin's terribly sensitive . . .'

On top of this, the phone doesn't stop ringing. Most of the calls are from friends, checking on details of the party, asking what time to arrive or whether they can bring anything. I drift from the kitchen to the dining room, where bottles of wine are stacked floor-to-ceiling, trying to work out what to do and which order to do it in.

Morgan disappears upstairs at about three, shortly after which Hen pops over. Nat is on a play date with a friend, giving Hen an hour or two to help me prepare for the party. While I'm searching for the fairy lights from last Christmas that I want to drape over the living-room mirror, Hen obligingly goes to fetch a bumper pack of crisps from the stash in the garage. She doesn't reappear. After ten minutes I start to worry she's tripped over the garden furniture or something else stored in the garage and hurt herself, so I go looking for her.

I hear her before I see her. She's just inside the utility room, talking on the phone. Her voice is low and conspiratorial.

'I know she's my best friend,' she is saying. 'But she's not letting it go.' I freeze. Hen's voice is a mix of pity and irritation. 'I have tried talking to her.' Another pause. 'No, not yet.'

Confusion turns to anger and shame in my head. I can't bear to hear any more. 'Hen?' I call out.

There's a muffled whisper from inside the utility room, then Hen reappears. 'Sorry.' She rolls her eyes. 'Got sidetracked.'

I open my mouth ready to challenge her, then close it again. Who she was talking to? Art? I don't want to think about it.

I'm withdrawn as she comes into the kitchen, but Hen chatters away, all breezy like there's nothing wrong. We put the crisps she brought from the garage into bowls then string up the fairy lights together. After that, I retreat to the kitchen while Hen spends an hour setting out candles and reorganizing the furniture in the living room to allow more space 'for dancing'.

I can't help but laugh when I see what she's done. I point out that Art hates dancing.

Hen rolls her eyes. 'Don't be so negative,' she says, and though her tone is light, there's a cutting edge to her voice. 'I'm sure he'd dance if you asked him.'

I feel uneasy. Does she think I'm being unfair on Art? Is her caustic tone connected to what I just overheard her say about me 'not letting it go'?

Hen obviously catches my discomfort. 'Sorry, Gen,' she says, waving her hand, as if to direct the tension between us into the next room. 'Is there anything else I can do?'

I look around. It's almost five now and, to be honest, I'd rather get on with sorting out the rest of the food by myself. Hen has brought a quiche and several of the other guests will come bearing dishes, so I've really only got a pavlova and a Black Forest gateau to finish off the seventies theme proved irresistible in the end. Anyway, Hen always makes a mess in the kitchen and I'm still feeling a distance between us that hasn't been there since the first year after Beth.

'I'm fine,' I say. 'Just a few dips to do really . . . Morgan can give me a hand if anything major needs doing.'

'Yeah, right.' Hen rolls her eyes. 'Careful she doesn't chip a nail.'

'Sshh!' I grin.

'Aw, you know I love Morgan,' Hen says, heading for the door. As if to prove the point she calls up the stairs. 'Bye, Morgan.' But there's no reply.

'I think she's in the bathroom,' I explain.

'Can't wait to see what she's wearing,' Hen says in a catty whisper. She points to the fur trim on Morgan's black suit jacket, which is still lying over the larger of her two suitcases. 'How many animals died to make that?'

'Sssh!' I scold again, ushering her out of the front door.

I head back to the kitchen and get busy with the gateau. Before I know it, it's gone six and I'm just laying prosciutto and olives on a plate, feeling frazzled and desperate for a bath, when Morgan appears. She stares at my ragged fingernails. I catch my reflection in the fridge door. God, I look even more of a mess than I did when she arrived. I'm still in the sweatpants and T-shirt I threw on this morning, my hair is messily piled on top of my head and there's a smear of cherry jam across my cheek.

'So how's the latest IVF going?' Morgan asks, her hands behind her back. 'I'm so pleased you're considering trying again.'

I'm taken aback, but I try not to show it. This isn't the first time that Morgan has known more about my life than I expect her to. Art has always talked to his sister about our relationship; she was certainly the first person he told that we were engaged, and I know he confided in her years ago, over the failure of our previous IVF treatments. I used to mind but not any longer. The older I get, the more I realize how much family matters and, after his mum died, Morgan and her brothers were all the family Art had. Anyway, while Morgan always knows the facts of our relationship, I'm certain Art rarely confides his feelings.

'We're still thinking about the IVF,' I say vaguely and with what I hope is an air of finality.

'Right.' Morgan hesitates a second, then holds out one hand. A small, silver package nestles in her palm. She crosses the room and hands it to me. 'I know it's Art who had the birthday, but I wanted to give you this.' She half-blushes as she speaks, her shoulders hunching slightly as she takes several steps back.

'Er, thank you,' I stammer. The silver package is a box, expertly wrapped with a small silver ribbon. I pull the end of the ribbon and it unfurls in my fingers. I glance at Morgan as I prise the lid off the box. She seems uncharacteristically uncertain, anxious almost.

Inside the box is a silver butterfly on a chain. I lift it out. It's as simple as it is beautiful. The letters 'a' and 'g' entwined sparkle on one wing.

'It's white gold and diamonds,' Morgan says. 'I had it done for you and Art.'

'It's lovely,' I breathe, examining the bracelet again. 'Oh, Morgan.'

I'm overwhelmed. How like my sister-in-law, so brusque and supercilious on the outside, to show such hidden depths of thoughtfulness. I look up. Morgan is blushing again, her face half turned away. For a second she looks utterly vulnerable.

'The butterfly is the symbol of change. I thought it might help you...' She pauses. 'I don't mean to patronize you, Geniver, but I know what its like to feel stuck and I thought this might help you to move on, to let things be different. Maybe even to write again.'

It's not easy to hear Morgan's insight into my life, but I am truly touched and genuinely grateful for her kindness. I rush across the short distance between us and hug her tightly.

'Thank you.' Tears spring to my eyes.

'You're welcome.' The sharp quality returns to Morgan's voice, her momentary vulnerability fading.

She disentangles herself from me and I draw back, aware that Morgan needs to retreat into her shell again. I fasten the bracelet around my wrist and turn it so the diamond 'a' and 'g' catch in the light.

'I won't forget this,' I say.

Morgan shrugs. Her gaze flickers over the dips, mostly still in their packaging, that are spread out across the kitchen countertops. Even though I know there are some delicious dishes in the fridge and the larder, I can't help but feel hopeless and disorganized. I experience a stab of self-loathing.

Morgan is so together, jetting around the world to meeting after meeting, with never a hair out of place. And yet she still finds time to come up with a thoughtful gift like this while I can barely make it downstairs by midday without an egg stain on my lapel. Morgan must look at this house and wonder what on earth I do all day.

Hell, I wonder myself.

'If there's nothing I can do here, I'm going to take a shower,'

she says.

My jaw drops. What on earth has she been doing for the past three hours if she hasn't showered yet? But Morgan has already vanished. By the time she gets back downstairs, with her hair artfully teased into large, dark curls and a satin robe over her clothes to protect them, the food is all on plates and back in the fridge. The living room and the kitchen are in a reasonable state of tidiness so I start up the music and light the candles Hen set out earlier.

Art's due back any second, there are only twenty minutes before we're expecting guests to arrive, and I'm now truly desperate to get upstairs to wash and change. Of course, Mum chooses exactly this moment to call from Australia.

'How are you, sweetheart?' she coos.

'Great, Mum, how's the holiday going?'

'Super, sweetheart,' she says. 'Though Doug's IBS has been playing up for the past few days and my golf game has gone to pot. I totally fell apart on the back nine yesterday . . .' She rambles on for a few more minutes. I try to listen, but my mind's on a million different things. The truth is, I have hardly anything in common with Mum. She's all into golf and her bridge games and what colour pelmets will go with her new three-piece suite. She never reads a book and thinks it's bad manners to discuss anything even vaguely connected with politics or philosophy or religion. She doesn't understand why I wrote my novels or, for that matter, why I stopped.

Though she's never said so, I'm sure that privately she thinks I'm lucky Art puts up with me. Maybe if I'd given her grandchildren, our relationship would have been different but, as things stand, the gulf between us feels unbridgeable.

Art arrives home as Mum is telling me about Ayers Rock and the nice couple she and Doug had dinner with yesterday evening. I watch Morgan waft towards him. Her satin robe slips from her shoulder, revealing the thin red strap of whatever she's wearing underneath. There's something possessive about the way she opens her arms to let him hug her. No, not possessive. Controlling. It's not surprising coming from Morgan, and maybe it's often like that with an older sister and a younger brother. As an only child, I find sibling relationships both strange and fascinating. I spent much of my childhood before Dad died wandering around our garden making up imaginary families for myself. Dad loved me to tell him about my made-up brothers and sisters. Mum just found it plain odd.

Art pecks Morgan on the cheek but holds back from her hug.

I realize I'm watching some kind of power struggle in play. Well, that makes sense. Art wouldn't want to feel owned by anyone. Perhaps it explains why I've never properly understood his relationship with his sister. They're less than two years apart, and while anyone can see how close they are, Art's always seemed slightly wary around her. He's never admitted this, of course. In fact, he looks at me like I'm mad whenever I bring it up. Morgan's just Morgan, Gen, he said once. A bit spiky, but she means well.

They talk in low voices in the hall. At one point Art looks up at me and half smiles. It's a sad smile. He looks exhausted. Morgan touches his arm, to get his attention back, but instead of looking at her, Art takes a step away. I can't see Morgan's face but her back stiffens. She tosses back her dark hair and stalks off, into the living room.

'So is Art looking forward to his party?' Mum chirrups down the line.

'Yeah, I think so. Hey, speaking of which, I'd better go and get ready,' I say.

'Well, make sure you look nice for Art,' Mum says meaningfully. 'He works so hard. You should make more effort, darling, so he feels special.'