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  ‘I’m stalking you!’ He laughs. ‘Not really!’

  ‘Oh, well, good, I suppose. That you’re not a stalker, I mean!’

  ‘I guessed you’d get this bus,’ Seb says. ‘I was about to catch a bus back from town, but I worked out you’d be on this one after you finished school. So I waited. I want to ask you something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m taking my driving test, Friday. If I pass, do you want to go somewhere with me? In the car?’

  ‘You’ve got a car?’

  ‘My mum’s car. So, do you?’

  ‘OK. Yes. Where, exactly?’

  ‘A film or something?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘So what’s your mobile number?’

  I tell him. He gives me his. I can hardly believe it. Seb is exchanging phone numbers with me! I don’t even mind the two Year Eight girls in the seat in front of us giggling and turning round to earwig and blow bubbles with gum, making disgusting noises. By the time they get off at their stop they are practically wetting themselves.

  ‘What’s their problem?’ Seb says, once they’ve got off.

  ‘Being thirteen?’ I say. ‘Being ignorant?’

  ‘School’s full of people like that,’ Seb says.

  ‘Not in the sixth form,’ I say. ‘It’s much better now. All those sort of people have left.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘So, what were you doing in town?’ I ask him.

  ‘This and that.’

  ‘You don’t give much away.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Got a new job yet?’

  ‘You sound just like my dad.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You say sorry a lot, don’t you?’

  ‘Sorry!’

  We both laugh.

  The bus slows down to go over the bridge. I reach forward to ring the bell. ‘Mine’s the next stop.’

  ‘The middle of nowhere.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘What time do you have to leave in the mornings?’

  ‘Too early. The bus goes at five to eight.’

  The bus stops abruptly and jerks me forward down the aisle. ‘See you! Good luck for Friday!’

  I stand at the kerb as the bus draws off. Seb waves at me from the back seat. The bus grinds up the hill: Seb’s silhouetted against the lit window, still waving. My heart’s all fluttery and I can’t stop smiling.

  Seb asked me out.

  Friday we are going out together.

  Seb and Em. Sounds funny.

  Seb and Emily. Better.

  I practise, all the way down the lane to the caravan field, under the trees.

  Dad’s home early. He puts his finger to his lips as I come in the door: Cassy is stretched out on the sofa, dozing.

  I make tea. I take it into my tiny bedroom and lie on the bottom bunk.

  ‘This came for you.’ Dad hands me a white envelope with Kat’s writing on the front. ‘You’re the lucky one!’

  ‘What’s wrong with Cass?’ I ask him. ‘She’s always tired. She looks terrible.’

  Dad looks surprised, as if he hasn’t even noticed. ‘Well,’ he starts. ‘She’s working hard.’

  ‘I think you should talk to her,’ I say. ‘Make her see a doctor.’

  Dad doesn’t respond to that. ‘Open your letter, then,’ he says. ‘Tell us what Kat says.’

  ‘Dad! No way! It’s a private letter. To me.’

  He smiles.

  ‘Go away, Dad!’

  I take a big slurp of tea and tear open the envelope.

  * * *

  Dear Em

  How are you????? Bet it’s even more freezing now in the caravan! Actually, York is much colder than Somerset! However, you will be dead jealous to know that not only do I have my own room with bed/desk/ chair/wardrobe/en-suite shower and loo but also CENTRAL HEATING!

  I am sooooo happy! I am now going out with Dan, who is this most gorgeous, über-clever guy studying Marine Biology. You would absolutely love him. He has dark hair and brown eyes and is super fit. You can look at him on my Facebook.

  Plus: I got 68 for my first essay which is quite good, and 72 for the practical, which is a distinction. You can tell Dad that bit. Nothing else.

  Give Cassy a big hug from me. I liked the photos you sent. You have got much better in a very short time. I showed some people here who know about art and things and they say they are really good too. You should do Photography at uni if you want to. Dad might throw a fit about it not being academic enough but it is YOUR LIFE and I think you should do a subject you really love. You can think about jobs and stuff later on. Anyway, some people get jobs taking photographs, don’t they? I suppose you’d have to be, like, exceptional. But if you did it with English you could do journalism or something like that. You’ve always been good at writing.

  A job in Polly’s shop sounds cool. I have been doing part-time bar work at the students’ union which is OK-ish and I need the money. Science textbooks cost silly amounts, like fifty quid EACH!!! (Don’t tell Dad about the job though.)

  What else is happening? Are you missing me? How is the house coming along? When will it be ready????

  Have you seen that boy again at the house???? Is it nice getting a real proper-letter-on-paper from your loving big sister? Send me one sometime, or better still, a parcel with stuff in it. Dan’s mum sent him one, tied up in old-fashioned brown paper and string and everyone thought it was really cool!

  I might go to Dan’s at Christmas/New Year. He lives in London. (But I will come back and see you too, I promise.)

  Loads of love

  xxxxxxxxxxx Kat

  I read it twice. Just for a moment I miss Kat so much my whole body aches. I know we argue and fight sometimes but she’s always been there, my whole life. I can’t bear it if she doesn’t come back for Christmas.

  I reread that paragraph.

  Dan. Last time she mentioned someone, it was Simon.

  It’s supper time. Dad has cooked, for once. He brings the oven tray to the table: fishcakes and chips.

  Cassy sits up, bleary-eyed. ‘I don’t think I want anything,’ she says. ‘I’ll just have some toast later. Sorry, Rob.’

  ‘So how’s our girl?’ Dad asks me while we eat.

  ‘She’s just fine,’ I say. ‘Happy, working hard, she got a distinction for some essay or something.’

  Dad beams. ‘That’s our clever Kat!’

  Later, in bed, I pull back the curtain and stare out. The darkness looks different. I wipe the steamed-up glass with a corner of the duvet cover. Thick fog has closed in round the caravan, cutting us off from the world even more completely. It swirls like smoke. Not far off, a fox barks. The sound is muffled but still distinctive: a vixen, calling. It’s an eerie, strange cry. The first time I ever heard it, when I was about six, I thought it was a person in pain, screaming. We were on holiday somewhere; a cottage in the countryside, Kat and me sharing a tiny attic bedroom with faded rose wallpaper and old-fashioned pink eiderdowns.

  Kat and I sat bolt upright in bed, calling Dad. ‘What’s that noise?’

  ‘Sounds like someone’s being murdered!’ Cassy said, following Dad into the bedroom.

  ‘Thanks for that, Cassy! It’s just a fox,’ Dad said. ‘A silly lady fox calling for a mate.’

  ‘Why’s it silly?’

  ‘Because she’s made such a noise she’s woken you both up!’

  ‘We weren’t asleep,’ Kat said.

  ‘Well, you should have been. It’s very late. It’s nearly ten o’clock.’

  Dad tucked us back in. He left the door open when he went back out, so the light from the hall would shine in just enough to stop me being scared.

  Now, lying in bed, the mist swirling outside, listening to that strange sound of the fox calling into the night, I feel weird too. It’s as if everything I know and that’s secure in my life is somehow coming loose. Like a boat that’s been untied from its mooring, drifting . . .

  Kat’s so ve
ry far away, her life taking its new shape without me. And now there’s Seb. And Francesca: her shadowy presence coming closer . . .

  As I slide into sleep, the cry of the fox outside in the darkness seems to move right into my head.

  8

  Friday, Rachel and I are having lunch in the sixth-form common room.

  ‘You keep checking your phone,’ Rachel says. ‘Who is it? The new mystery man in your life?’

  I snap the phone shut. ‘No one,’ I lie. Seb still hasn’t texted. Does that mean he didn’t pass his test, or that he’s forgotten to tell me? Or he’s changed his mind about going out?

  Rachel tips coffee from the jar into two mugs. ‘What did your dad say about Paris?’

  ‘He’s going to think about it. He wasn’t exactly enthusiastic. He’s so mean.’

  ‘It’s not as if it’ll cost him anything.’

  ‘Dad won’t let your mum pay for me.’

  ‘Why not? She wants to! She offered, didn’t she? It’ll be much more fun if you come with us.’ Rachel picks up a disgusting old bag of sugar. The spoon hasn’t been washed all term and is all crusted up.

  ‘You’ll get food poisoning,’ I say, ‘if you use that!’

  ‘Nah. Sugar’s a preservative. No bacteria can grow in it. Scientific fact.’

  ‘I’ll have another go at Dad. And we should get jobs anyway. I won’t tell him, then he can’t say no.’

  ‘What’s up? You’re not usually like this with your dad.’

  ‘He’s an idiot. Making us live in a caravan in the winter. It’s insane. It’s making Cassy sick already and it’s not even proper winter yet.’

  ‘Hey, Luke!’

  And Rachel’s gone, just like that! All her attention’s focused on Luke, now. I don’t mind, not really. I know that’s how it is with Rach. I look at them, arms round each other. It’s sweet, really. They’ve been going out together since the beginning of term, on and off. It’s on, at the moment.

  Still no message from Seb.

  I could phone him?

  Better to wait, though.

  I’m on the way home when the text finally comes.

  I passed! x

  One kiss!

  Well done! I text back. I think for a second. Add a kiss from me.

  I’ve got as far as the caravan-site gate when the next text bleeps.

  Pick you up at 7?

  I think quickly. No way I want Dad and Cassy to know about Seb. Not yet.

  Meet u top of lane near bus stop.

  His reply comes straight back.

  OK. xx

  I save all his texts, so I can look at them again. Three kisses in total. Three text kisses, like promises of real ones.

  It takes me ages to decide what to wear. In the end, I just wear jeans, and my black top. I wash my hair, and dry it with Cassy’s hairdryer. I borrow a lipgloss from Kat’s old make-up bag, the stuff she left behind, even though I kind of know Seb won’t notice stuff like make-up. It won’t make any difference to him.

  ‘We’re going to see a film,’ I say, in a generalising sort of way to Cassy. I don’t specify who the we is, so I know she’ll imagine it’s Rachel and me. I don’t want to actually lie to her. ‘I’ll get a lift home afterwards, so don’t wait up.’

  She’s only half listening. She nods. ‘Have fun.’

  I’m nervous, waiting at the top of the lane. I’m too early. Every time a car comes along the main road my heart starts to skitter again, in case it’s him. Then I start thinking he’s not going to show up. But dead on seven, a silver Renault slows down and then brakes, and I see Seb’s anxious face peering through the window. He looks so serious it makes me laugh.

  He leans across the front seat to open the door for me. For a second, neither of us knows quite what to say.

  ‘You all right?’ I say. ‘Why’s the windscreen all misted up?’

  ‘I can’t find the demister thing,’ Seb says. ‘It’s a bit different, driving all by myself. In the dark.’

  I laugh. ‘Are you sure you passed? Is it safe?’

  He looks indignant. ‘Yes. Of course.’

  ‘Only joking. I’d be terrified, I think. Your mum must trust you, though. Lending you her car and everything.’

  ‘She’s dead pleased with me. For passing something, for once. Proving my dad wrong.’

  I try turning the temperature dial. Between us, we work out how to get warm air on the screen. ‘That’s better.’

  ‘Mirror, signal, manoeuvre,’ Seb says out loud. He pulls away from the kerb.

  I choose us some music from the stack of CDs in the glove compartment. Not bad, seeing as they’re his mum’s choice! It starts to feel fun, us driving along together towards town. It begins to rain: soft, light drizzle. Seb has a momentary panic over getting the windscreen wipers going and they suddenly flip into extra-fast mode, beating like crazy, and it makes me laugh and laugh.

  ‘Stop it!’ Seb says, when we get to the edge of the town. ‘I’ve got to concentrate. And you’ve got to help me find a place to park. I’m not very good at that, yet. It’ll have to be a really big space.’

  It takes about ten goes to get the car in the space and close enough to the kerb. I haven’t laughed so much in ages.

  At the cinema, Seb pays for both tickets. Rachel would say that definitely makes this a proper date. I offer him the money for mine anyway. It’s not fair, expecting him to pay when he doesn’t have a job or anything.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Seb says. ‘My mum’s paying for us both.’

  ‘Did you tell her about me, then?’

  ‘Of course! Why wouldn’t I? And anyway, we’re celebrating my test, remember?’

  Seb chooses the film. Spanish, with subtitles, an art-house film set in the Spanish Civil War that he seems to know all about. I don’t really mind what we see, as long as it isn’t horror.

  ‘What’ve you got against horror?’ Seb asks.

  ‘I think about it too much afterwards. Can’t get it out of my head. My imagination goes into overdrive. That’s if it’s good horror. If it’s bad, it’s just silly.’

  ‘One of the best films I’ve ever seen is this really old one, Don’t Look Now.’

  ‘I’ve seen it too. That last scene, in Venice, with the red mac . . . and that creepy blind woman.’

  And that amazing sex scene, I suddenly remember. Donald what’s his name and Julie Christie when she was young, and the really slow, tender way they touch each other, making love, sort of soothing each other through their grief about the dead child. It was like I suddenly understood something, watching that. About making love, and how beautiful it could be, and how it could connect two people together at this really deep level. But I know all this sounds corny and there’s no way I’m about to say any of it to Seb.

  I can hardly focus on the film, at first, I’m so aware of sitting next to him. His shoulder’s next to mine, his leg right up close to my leg, so that I can feel the warmth of it even through my jeans and his. We’re at the end of a row, about halfway back. I can see his face, sideways on: his thin aquiline nose, and the dark stubble round his chin. He’s wearing his black wool jacket with the collar turned up. About five minutes in, he leans forward and starts struggling to take the jacket off, so I help him pull it off one shoulder, and then as he settles back, his hand sort of touches mine, and then he holds my hand properly, and all I’m thinking about for ages is whether it’s all sweaty or too cold. But then I start to relax; the film really gets going and I just sink into the story.

  Which is a kind of horror after all. Horrible and beautiful: one inside the other. Unbearable, because of what humans are capable of, and totally compelling, because of the way it shows a child finding her way out of the horror by creating her own imaginative world.

  Seb holds on to my hand, all the way to the end.

  He looks at me. ‘All right?’ he whispers, and I nod.

  We stay in our seats until the last credits have rolled. We both want to see who wrote the music score. We’
re almost the last people to leave. I’ve got tears in my eyes, from that final scene where the girl is deep in the labyrinth, saving her baby brother. I’m too choked up to talk.

  Seb doesn’t speak either. I like that. I don’t want to start dissecting everything straight away. I want to stay in the spell the story casts over you, when you’re watching something brilliant. It’s nice to think he’s the same.

  It’s still raining when we make our way out of the cinema on to the dark street. We shelter under my umbrella, which means we have to walk close together. Everything feels amazing: the film, and Seb and me walking through the wet streets together, the street lights reflected in the puddles, the starry dazzle of car headlights.

  ‘What shall we do now?’ Seb says, when we’re back in the car. ‘Do you need to get straight home?’

  ‘Can we go to Moat House?’ I say. ‘I want to see it in the dark, when there’s no one there.’

  Seb laughs. ‘OK, if you really want to. Why not?’

  By the time we get to the field gate and park the car the rain has stopped. The clouds are starting to clear; every so often an edge of silver moon appears. We pick our way across the sopping-wet grass.

  ‘Have you got a key?’ Seb whispers.

  ‘It’s under the stone near the door,’ I whisper back.

  ‘Why are we whispering?’

  ‘I don’t know! Because it’s so quiet?’

  ‘Or we’ll wake the house ghost.’

  ‘Don’t talk about ghosts!’

  We push the heavy door open. It creaks, like a stage sound effect. Seb makes a silly ghost whoooo noise, and I giggle.

  ‘It’s your house,’ Seb says. ‘You’d better show me round.’

  ‘You’ve already had the grand tour, from Kat,’ I say.

  ‘That was ages ago,’ Seb says. ‘Everything’s different now.’

  There’s still no electricity. With the roof on, it’s darker than ever. We have to prop the front door open to let in the scraps of moonlight.

  I take Seb’s hand and pull him after me, describing each room as if it’s finished. ‘This magnificent fireplace is one of the original features of the house, dating from the fifteenth century. It has been restored by master craftsmen. And this kitchen is state-of-the-art twenty-first-century design, with huge French windows opening out on to the gardens and the river.’