The Rinucci Brothers. Lucy Gordon

calm down. He seemed to be doing much the same for there was a silence. Turning, she saw that he was at the window with his back to her.

      He was a tall man, well over six foot, and leanly built with broad shoulders which were emphasised by the way he was standing. When he left the window and began to stride about the room she was struck by how graceless he was. There was strength there, muscle, power, but nothing gentle or yielding.

      Heaven help the person who really gets on his wrong side, Evie thought. He’d be pitiless. What kind of life does that poor child have?

      When he spoke it was with an exasperated sigh, suggesting that he was doing his best with this awkward woman, but it was very difficult.

      ‘This is getting us nowhere,’ he said. ‘I accept that you came here with the best of intentions, and I’m glad to know about his misbehaviour. But your job is done now, and I suggest you leave it there.’

      She lost her temper again. She couldn’t help it. This man was a machine for making her angry.

      ‘My job is not done as long as you’re talking about Mark’s ‘‘misbehaviour’’. He is not misbehaving. His mother’s dead, his father’s trying to pretend she never existed. He is miserable, unhappy, wretched, lonely, and that should be your priority. Am I getting through?’

      ‘Now look—’

      A sound from the doorway made them both look, and see Mark. She wondered how long he’d been standing there, and how much he’d heard.

      ‘Hallo, Dad.’

      ‘Hallo, Mark. Has anyone offered Miss Wharton any tea?’

      ‘Yes, Lily’s made some.’

      ‘Then I suggest you take it upstairs and show Miss Wharton your room. She’d like to see some of your interests.’

      She guessed that he would really have liked to throw her out, but he would not do so in front of his son.

      ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I appreciate your being so helpful.’

      That annoyed him, she was glad to notice.

      Mark’s room turned out to contain all the gadgets any boy could want, including a music centre and computer. Evie guessed she was supposed to admire, and conclude that Mark had everything. Instead, she shivered.

      Such a profusion of mechanical things, and nothing human. Even here, no pictures of the child’s mother were on show.

      ‘How powerful is your computer?’ she asked.

      He switched on and showed her. As she’d expected it was state of the art, linked to a high-speed Internet connection.

      ‘It’s the next generation,’ he said. ‘They aren’t even in the shops yet, but Dad brought it home for me. He makes sure my machine is always ahead of the other kids’ machines.’

      ‘I’ll bet your school loves him for that,’ Evie observed wryly.

      ‘At my last school they told him he was throwing everything out of kilter by making their computers look outdated. He replaced every machine in the entire school with the newest thing on the market. Then he turned to the headmistress and said, ‘Not out of kilter now.’ And he winked.’

      ‘He what? Mark, I don’t believe it. I shouldn’t think your father knows how to wink.’

      ‘He can sometimes. He says there are things any man can do if he has to.’

      So, Evie reflected, winking was Justin Dane’s idea of putting on the charm, something a man could do when he had to, but which was otherwise a waste of time. But she felt she was getting to know him now, and ventured to say, ‘I’ll bet he bought you a new computer too, and it was one step ahead of the school’s.’

      Mark grinned and nodded.

      ‘What do you want to do when you leave school, Mark?’

      ‘I’d like to do something with languages. Dad doesn’t like it, but it’s what I want.’

      ‘Why isn’t your father keen?’

      ‘He says there’s no money in it.’

      ‘Well, that’s true,’ she agreed with a rueful grin.

      ‘But I don’t care about that,’ he said eagerly. ‘Languages take you into other people’s minds, and different worlds, so you’re not trapped any more, and—’

      This was the boy she knew in class, words tumbling over each other in his joy at the glorious flame he’d discovered. Evie smiled encouragement.

      ‘I like Italian best,’ he said. ‘One day I want to go to Italy—hang on.’

      A knock at the door had signalled Lily’s arrival with tea. While Mark was letting her in Evie looked at the shelf behind her chair and saw, with pleasure, how many books it contained. She took down the nearest volume and jumped as a photograph fell out from between the pages.

      Picking it up, she saw that it was of a young woman with a little boy, plainly a much younger Mark. They were laughing directly into each other’s eyes.

      His mother, she thought.

      Something caught in her throat at the feeling that blazed from that picture. If ever two people had loved each other it was these two. But she was dead, and now his life was lived with a harsh father in a house whose luxury couldn’t hide its bleakness.

      Suddenly she became aware of the silence and looked up to find Mark watching her, his face pale.

      ‘Oh, that’s what became of it,’ he said. ‘I was afraid I’d lost it.’

      He held out his hand and she gave him the photograph.

      ‘Is that—?’

      ‘Shall I pour you some tea?’ he asked, almost too politely.

      His face was implacable, setting her at a distance. At that moment his likeness to his father was alarming.

      ‘Thank you, I’d like some,’ she said, recognising that she must back off.

      He put the picture away and poured her tea, taking up their previous conversation about Italy, a country that he’d evidently studied closely.

      ‘You’ve got the makings of a scholar,’ she said at last.

      ‘Don’t let Dad hear you say that,’ he warned. ‘He’d hit the roof.’

      ‘Yes, I suppose he would. I guess you need to be a bit older before you can stand up to him.’

      ‘People can’t often stand up to Dad. He just flattens them. Except you.’ He gave a sigh of delight. ‘You flattened him.’

      ‘Mark,’ she said, laughing, ‘life is about a lot more than who flattens whom.’ She couldn’t resist adding, ‘Whatever your father thinks.’

      ‘Yeah, right,’ he said, unconvinced. ‘But it helps. And you’re the only one who’s ever flattened Dad.’

      ‘Stop saying that,’ she begged. ‘And how much did you overhear, anyway?’

      ‘Enough to know that you fla—’

      ‘All right, all right,’ she said hastily.

      ‘Wish I could do it.’

      Diplomatically she decided not to answer this.

      ‘I have to be going,’ she said.

      ‘I wish you wouldn’t. It’s nice with you here.’

      ‘I’ll see you at school tomorrow. That is—’ she added casually, ‘if you’re there.’

      ‘I will be.’

      ‘No more truanting?’

      ‘Promise.’

      They