And this is when Isolte follows, stumbling into the water, hands outstretched to pull her back, trying to catch hold of her arm. Each time she attempts to grip flesh and bone, her hand slides through a buzz of electrified air. Her fingers hum and fall away empty. She feels the bite of ice around her legs. Her skin recoils. She gasps, bracing herself against the push of the waves, balancing on slippery stones. ‘Stop!’ she shouts. ‘Stop. Mummy, I’m sorry. Don’t go! Don’t go…’

  The whistle of waves and wind swallows her words. Her mother is already submerged in inky water. Her hair floats in a lighter fan around her. Her face is a pale blur. Isolte can’t see her eyes, can’t see her expression. And there is nothing but the night and the dark sea.

  ‘Issy… darling… it’s all right…’

  And she is awake, flailing inside Ben’s arms, her cheeks wet. She buries her face in the curve of his shoulder. His arms are around her, tight. She stops struggling, breathes in and out, tasting Ben’s fusty breath, the blue detergent smell of the sheets.

  ‘You’re safe.’ His mouth moves against her neck. ‘You’re with me.’

  The darkness of the room recedes as her eyes grow accustomed to it, and she makes out the shapes of Ben’s bedroom: the glint of the mirror on the wall, the angle of a lamp, the faint glow of a streetlight through the closed blind. And Ben, raising himself on to his elbows, his hair sticking up, the bulk of his shoulders a weight above her.

  ‘What’s the matter, Issy?’ he says softly, his voice rough with sleep and wine. ‘This isn’t about me coming to bed late, is it?’

  She mutters, shaking her head.

  ‘A bad dream?’ He strokes her hair clumsily, fingers catching in the tangles. ‘You’ve had them before. Do you want to tell me?’

  She swallows, licking dry lips. She feels exhausted. She remembers now. Stevie was here. Ben climbing in beside her much later, his hot hand on her hip.

  ‘I’m sorry about last night,’ he says sheepishly into the silence. ‘I drank too much. Too excited about the pictures. I think I’m going to get a cover out of them… but I shouldn’t have stayed up with him. It was going to be our evening. Sorry.’

  ‘It’s a recurring dream… about my mother,’ she says suddenly. ‘I can’t get rid of it.’

  Ben is quiet; she can feel him waiting. She puts her head on his chest, his skin warm, slightly sticky, and hears the thump of his heart under her ear, a liquid gurgle inside his stomach. Perhaps it is the comfort of the darkness, or exhaustion, or even the sly sense of safety that has crept up on her over the last few weeks, but Isolte begins to talk.

  ‘She killed herself.’ She keeps her eyes closed as she speaks, her ear against the curve of his ribs. ‘She drowned herself off a beach. Late at night. She was drunk, but it wasn’t an accident. They found rocks in her pockets.’

  She hears his heartbeat accelerate into a dull thundering. ‘God.’ Shock makes his voice falter. ‘When?’

  ‘We were twelve.’

  There is the wet click of Ben’s swallowing, the opening and closing of his throat. ‘Darling, I’m so sorry.’ He strokes her back. Long steady strokes. ‘No wonder you cry in your sleep.’

  She shivers.

  Isolte takes a deep breath. ‘Things… well, things had got very bad at home.’

  A door slides shut inside her. Her fingers curl into balls and she rolls away from Ben. ‘It was a long time ago,’ she says with finality, thumping the pillow and settling into it. ‘Sorry I woke you. Guess we’d better get some sleep.’ She yawns. ‘Early start tomorrow.’

  ‘OK.’ Ben pulls her closer, buries his nose in the back of her neck. He yawns as well, a rush of exhaled sound. ‘Have it your own way.’ He smacks his lips together, reaches out to take a gulp of water from a bottle on the floor. ‘I’m not going to pry. But I’m here, and I care; you know that, don’t you, Isolte? I’m here if you want to talk to me.’

  7

  Isolte threads another piece of paper into the typewriter. She frowns, and her fingers hit the keys, rat-a-tat-tat. This summer is about colour. Hot pinks and sunny orange. Don’t be afraid to mix them. Clashing is the new matching. She sighs and unscrews a bottle of Tipp-Ex, painting over the last sentence. The letters are still visible, grey shadows under blobby white. She picks up her takeaway coffee and sips. It’s tepid and bitter. She should have asked for sugar.

  She leans back in her chair, stretching. She’s been at her desk since she got in this morning. She needs to finish this copy by lunchtime. She swivels and looks around her. The fashion department is at the centre of the open-plan office. From her vantage point she watches the girls on the subs’ desk scrutinising copy for widows and typos. The art department, positioned at the end of the office, is where page layouts are created and mocked up. Jason, the art director, is there now, perched on a stool.

  Isolte’s assistant, Lucy, appears at the door of the fashion cupboard; a silver evening dress slithers over one arm. ‘Is Chanel sending someone to pick this up?’ she calls. Isolte nods. ‘This afternoon.’

  Isolte can just see the profile of the new editor: Sam Fowler, fresh-faced as a twenty-year-old, black hair close-cropped. She is smoking and talking on the phone. She exhales a long plume of smoke and laughs, swinging her chair round, flashing a sudden slash of red lipstick and white teeth.

  Isolte starts, colour rushing to her cheeks. She feels as though she’s been caught out. She drops her head quickly, her fingers hitting the keys. Let your palette be a riot of colour. Oh God. What’s the matter with her? She’s never going to get this done on time. She picks up a pen and begins to tap it against her front teeth. Her attention strays to the pinboard by her desk. There are cards for models, photographers and make-up artists; some Polaroid out-takes from recent shoots. In the middle is a picture of a big golden horse standing in a field of yellow grass. She’d come across it in a magazine months ago and, on impulse, torn it out and pinned it to her wall. She leans forward and takes it down, staring at it as if it might give her inspiration.

  ‘What kind of creature do you call that?’ Lucy is looking over her shoulder.

  ‘Suffolk Punch.’ Isolte rubs a finger over the image. ‘Beautiful, isn’t he? There aren’t many left now.’

  ‘I’m scared of horses,’ Lucy admits, ‘prefer them at a distance.’

  *

  It was summer when they came across the stallion. The fibre of trees popping and cracking. The air full of gold, and smells of moss and bark. They had been bunking off, of course. A hot Friday morning, the four of them aimless in the forest, beginning to feel hungry. And there he was.

  He’d been grazing in a clearing. He wasn’t wearing a head collar. When he heard them he put up his head and stared. There was a thin blaze of white between his eyes. He twitched his sandy tail to get at the flies that buzzed around his warm skin.

  ‘Here, boy,’ John called in a low sigh.

  Michael whispered, moving forward with his hands held open, clicking his tongue, ‘Let’s take him back.’

  John was treacle-slow inside a shaft of light, stepping soundlessly.

  The horse shivered violently, kicking up a back hoof under his belly and stamping it down, his tail thrashing back and forth.

  Viola braced herself, swallowing.

  ‘It’s just a fly bothering him,’ John muttered. Reaching the animal’s side, he slipped his hand up to touch its neck. ‘Quick,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘Issy, give us yer belt.’

  John put his mouth close to the horse’s muzzle, blowing softly into flared nostrils. The horse’s ears pricked forward. He stood still as Michael threaded the belt around his neck and buckled it. He had to use the very last hole.

  ‘Want to get up?’ Michael jerked his head a fraction.

  ‘Without a bridle or anything?’ Isolte looked at the dinnerplate hooves and then up at the horse’s naked back. His withers stood higher than the top of her head.

  ‘We’ll hold him. He won’t hurt you.’ John laid his cheek against the horse’s neck.

  Isolte’s mouth was dry. She put a hand on the stallion, feeling the pulse inside his living flank, the depths of his heart. And it seemed that she heard the voice of the horse, the slow rhythm of him. She put a foot into Michael’s cupped palm, his fingers grazing her ankle. He pushed up underneath and she made a grab for the coarse mane, clutching handfuls. Sliding one leg over, she was able to straddle his back. Michael gave her an approving nod and there was sudden heat in her cheeks; she raised her chin to hide it. Viola clambered up behind. She pressed close against Isolte’s back, hands around her waist.

  John and Michael walked either side of the stallion, one hand each on the belt. He seemed happy to go with them, taking long, unhurried strides. Viola and Isolte swayed together, rolling with the measured gait. Viola’s voice, singing an old nursery rhyme, was muffled against Isolte’s shoulder.

  Isolte wasn’t scared. She wanted to hold the moment: the smell of horse and his warmth on her skin; Viola’s breathing weight; the boys’ slide and scuff as they walked; steady hoof fall. It was all connected. Nothing mattered outside it. She wanted to travel like this for ever. But even as she touched the beautiful belonging of the moment, she was losing it.

  They left the forest and reached open fields, scrubby grass and sheep grazing. On the tarmac the horse’s unshod hooves hardly made a sound. There were seagulls wheeling and a salt bite in her mouth. From her elevated position, Isolte could see over the sea wall, watch the white tops of rolling breakers. A lone car came up behind, a blue Cortina, changing gears with a metallic grating. It gave them a wide berth, accelerating off into the distance. The horse twitched one ear, and kept walking.

  Because they were bunking, they didn’t dare go to the farm, couldn’t risk having to explain to adults. They stopped at the first field with Punches. Viola and Isolte half fell, half slid from his back, landing with a jolt. The boys closed the gate behind the horse, fastened the latch. The other horses turned towards him, whickering. He walked lazily into the long grass, as if wading out to sea, his tail trailing over pale fronds.

  Afterwards Isolte could smell him on her hands. Sweat and dirt stuck to her skin where she had stroked his coat. She rubbed it off in tiny black balls, like disintegrating rubber between her fingers.

  *

  ‘Have you got the copy ready?’

  Isolte jumps. Sam is looking down at her, eyes narrowed, a burning cigarette between her fingers.

  ‘Nearly there,’ Isolte lies. ‘I’ll put it on your desk.’

  ‘By the way,’ Sam says casually, engulfed in a cloud of her own cigarette smoke, ‘someone said your sister was anorexic. You know we’re running a feature on it. Can I tell our writer to get in touch with you? She may want some quotes.’

  Isolte stops breathing. Smoke fills her lungs. She feels as though she is suffocating. She wants to say, ‘Do you know what you’ve just asked me? Do you understand that my sister is killing herself?’ She rubs her nose.

  Over at the art desk, Isolte can see Jason, the art director, looking through the shoot she and Ben had done the other day. Dresses waft and float in brilliant colours. The blonde girl turns and bends, all angles and bones against the paper backdrop.

  ‘All right,’ Isolte says. ‘I suppose so.’

  The picture of the horse lies on top of her copy. She picks it up and pins it back on to the noticeboard, sits down and threads another piece of paper into the typewriter. Types three lines and stops, staring into space. She can’t take the call. Won’t talk to the writer. She should have said no.

  Isolte knows how the feature on anorexia will look. There’ll be real-life pictures of girls: shocking black and white images with loud red writing over the top. There will be ribs, hipbones protruding and skull faces grimacing for the camera.

  Years ago people read about Isolte and Viola and Rose in newspaper articles. Their story was discussed over breakfast; blame was apportioned, sides taken. Isolte wonders how many people ate their fish and chips out of their story, polished their shoes on the back of it.

  The story ran for weeks. At first it had been on all the front pages, but gradually it became stale and slipped further back. It had been on the evening news too; but the TV channels soon dropped it to move on to recent crimes and fresh disasters. It had gone altogether by the time news broke that there were survivors from the Chilean air crash, and their exhausted, emaciated faces stared out of the front pages.

  Rose slept the days away, like a sick person, her mouth sagging open. By the bed an empty bottle and a packet of sleeping pills. Isolte had begun to count them, hiding the extra packets. Viola was listless, pinched around the mouth, eyes staring at nothing. She’d already begun to push her food around her plate, not eating much. But Isolte carried on: getting up in the morning, breathing in and out, making meals, eating meals, feeding the cat. She still had ambitions and plans. She hadn’t wanted to look for oblivion at the bottom of a bottle or stop living. Did that make her a bad person? Did that make her heartless?

  She rips the sheet from the typewriter with a satisfying zipping noise and crumples it into a ball, flinging it towards the bin. It misses, rolling on to the green carpet tiles.

  ‘Hey,’ Jason bends and picks it up, ‘you won’t make the Olympic team.’

  Isolte inclines her head, forcing a smile. ‘No.’

  ‘Just had a look at the pictures.’ Jason lingers by her desk. ‘They’re good.’

  He tips his head in Sam’s direction. ‘Don’t mind her. She’s just trying to make her mark.’

  Isolte grimaces. ‘Somehow I get the feeling she doesn’t like me.’

  Winding in another sheet of paper, she calls Ben at the number he left for emergencies. She just wants his voice for a few moments. It will hold her steady. She thinks of how he was last night. She had surfaced from the nightmare into his arms, salt water still in her mouth, her mother slipping through her fingers. The dream had raised the grief inside her, dragging unwanted feelings to the surface like rotting things released in a flood. She’s never told anyone about her mother before. It had felt extraordinary to speak the words aloud. She wants that sense of closeness, of trust again. She needs it now.

  The number rings. She remembers that he’s doing an advertising campaign on location. He’s out of town, at some stately home. Someone else answers and there is a long pause while Isolte listens to an empty crackling, before Ben’s voice comes on the line. She can hear noise in the background. It’s not a good time.

  ‘What, Issy? Sorry.’ A muffled thump, as if he’s dropped something. ‘Didn’t catch that? What did you want?’

  A girl is asking a question. Isolte can’t make out the words, just the tone of voice. He must have turned away from the mouthpiece or put his hand over it. She can hardly hear his reply. And then he comes back, sounding breathless. ‘Look, if it isn’t important then I’m going to go, OK? I don’t want to piss the client off.’

  She puts the phone down. Drops her head into her hands. She doesn’t know what she wanted to ask or tell him. It was only a feeling of need. Even if she could have put it into words he wouldn’t have been able to hear. Not when he’s working. But her nightmare has stirred up echoes from the past, and Viola’s skeletal face hovers over the page, making Isolte’s fingers skitter over the typewriter keys, thoughts about fabric colours dissolving, as she hears, from long ago, the sound of rainwater dripping into a bucket.

  *

  Water dribbles through the ceiling in their bedroom. It seeps around the light fixing, spreading like a shadow, and drips into a bowl that Isolte put under it. It smells of moss and wet wood.

  It’s been raining for days. Sudden squalls splatter loudly against the windows. The lane outside the garden runs like a river, pebbles carried off in the flood and the sand darkened and sopping. There are puddles everywhere. Nobody comes.

  Their mother is in bed, her face turned to the wall.

  Isolte has opened a can of baked beans and she scrapes them into a bowl and puts a spoon in the cold mush. She has cut her finger on the edge of the tin. She sucks the stinging split, her tongue rubbing at the blood.

  ‘Mummy?’ Isolte hovers, proffering the bowl. ‘Here. For you.’

  The mound of bedclothes doesn’t move. Rose’s hair, spread over the pillow, is lank and tangled. Some days she sits up with wild eyes and holds her arms open to them, calling, ‘Come and give me a hug,’ clasping them tight. ‘My darling girls.’ It feels different from her lovely warm bear hugs; it feels like being strangled. She pats their faces with fluttery fingers, telling them over and over, ‘I know you didn’t mean it. I know you didn’t.’ Other days, like today, she looks through them as if they’re not there.

  The girls had forgotten about the goats. Poor Tess and Bathsheba. Isolte is horrified by her lapse of memory; but it’s so hard to think of everything. The goats must be starving, she worries, tethered to the same patch of worn-down lawn. She hurries out to them, bread in her pocket, calling. But they have gone. They might have slipped their collars, she thinks; but there are no collars or ropes lying in the sodden grass. There are just the metal spikes stuck into wet ground, pulled over at an angle, and piles of droppings.

  When she wanders into the trees, calling for them, she hears the rustle of rabbits scurrying under bracken, and a flutter of wings. No bleating goats appear out of the shadows. And suddenly she knows that the forest itself is watching; that something bad is out there waiting. The darkness shifts, uncoiling, and it reaches long arms to her. Frightened, she turns and races back to the house, heart thundering, slipping and sliding, brambles catching at her clothes. She slows down as she enters the garden, tries to calm her laboured breathing. She doesn’t want to scare Viola. It’s bad enough that she has to tell her about the goats.

  ‘Perhaps the poacher stole them?’ Viola’s bottom lip trembles.