‘I’ve hated keeping it a secret. After all, we’ve always told each other everything.’ My head’s spinning. I gape at her as she sits there. She looks quite calm. ‘I don’t believe it.’ ‘Sorry.’ ‘But—’ ‘You don’t want to know the reason,’ she says. ‘You so don’t.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘Because you were fond of Jeremy, and it’s best to keep it that way—’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Just forget it, Petra!’ ‘What do you mean? What has he done?’ Bev sighs, a sigh of profound weariness, and sinks her head in her hands. There’s something theatrical about this, something that I don’t understand. I feel sick. You don’t want to know the reason. In the next room, the clock strikes the hour … I count the chimes, as if my life depends on it. My life and Jeremy’s, my past and my future. ‘You know nothing, pumpkin,’ says Bev. ‘Nothing about this rotten country, you with your Guardian and your nice London house. Why don’t you keep it that way?
