Page 39 of You Are Mine

She managed to almost sound surprised that her friend’s mom was there.

‘Katie.’ Mary said her name slowly, her gaze fixed on her daughter’s friend’s eyes. ‘Is Sally here?’

‘Er’ – Katie’s eyes widened with the effort of the lie she was about to tell – ‘she’s—’

‘Don’t,’ Mary said. ‘I wouldn’t want you to ruin my good opinion of you.’ She stepped into the house. ‘Left? Right?’

Katie shook her head. ‘Upstairs.’ The word was barely more than a whimper.

‘Upstairs?’ That could only mean one thing. Mary took the stairs briskly, making sure she made some noise to alert her daughter – if she still needed it – to her arrival. When she reached the landing, a door to her left opened and her daughter walked out, a bright smile on her lips.

‘Oh, hi, Mom,’ she said. ‘Are we leaving?’

‘Yes,’ Mary said. Had she been this easy to read when she was fourteen? She didn’t think so, but she would ask her mom and find out. She walked towards Sally. ‘But not just yet. In a minute.’

Sally moved to her side to block the door, her hand on the handle.

‘What are you doing?’ she said.

‘Finding out what you’re doing.’ Mary gestured at her hand. ‘Open the door.’

‘Why?’

‘You know why.’

‘There’s nothing in there.’

There was something in there for sure. Drugs, alcohol, cigarettes: all possibilities, but Mary didn’t think it was any of those things. She had a good idea, however, what it was.

‘Open it.’

‘Come on, Mom.’ Sally let go of the door handle and put her arm around Mary’s shoulders, trying to steer her towards the stairs. It was the last, desperate attempt to escape of a criminal who knew she was caught.

Mary shrugged her off and opened the door.

It was exactly what – who – she expected.

You Understand What That Means?

Dylan, her daughter’s totally unsuitable – and more to the point, older – boyfriend, smiled up at her from his perch on the edge of the bed. His jean jacket was on the floor at his feet, only one of which had on a sock. His hair was cut into a ridiculous bleach-buzz, and he had a new tattoo on his neck, the skin around it still red.

‘Hi, Mary.’ He grinned, but there was no warmth in his eyes.

‘Mrs Jordan, if you don’t mind.’ She addressed herself to Sally. ‘What’s he doing here?’

If there was a way for an expression to embody the essence of guilt, Sally had found it. She looked away from her mom, her feet suddenly of inordinate interest.

‘Hanging out,’ she said, her voice barely audible.

‘We talked about this,’ Mary said. They had: she had pointed out, quite forcefully, that fourteen-year-old Sally should not – ever – be alone in a bedroom with seventeen-year-old Dylan. ‘Go downstairs and wait for me in the car.’

Sally nodded. For once, she did not have her signature look of total incredulity on her face.

‘Now,’ Mary said, her tone hardening, as Sally left the room. She listened to her daughter’s footsteps descend the stairs, and wondered whether Dylan thought this would be easier because it was coming from Sally’s mom, and not from her father.

If so, he was sorely mistaken.

‘She’s fourteen,’ she said. ‘You understand what that means?’