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She did not call back. No one did. By ten p.m., Sandra was as worried as him.

They sat at the kitchen table. Sandra had a mug of tea; Martin still couldn’t stomach anything. He was sure, now, that something was seriously wrong.

‘Where the fucking hell is she?’ he said. He rarely swore; even now the words felt out of place in his mouth. ‘I don’t understand what she’s playing at.’

‘Me neither,’ Sandra said. ‘But when she does get home she’s going to be in so much trouble she won’t know which way is up for a month. She can’t do this kind of thing.’

‘What if something’s happened to her?’ Martin said. ‘I can’t stop picturing—’

‘She’s fine,’ Sandra said. ‘Don’t think like that. I did this kind of thing when I was her age. It doesn’t make it any better, but this is what teenage girls do. She’ll be in the park, drinking and smoking. Or with another boy. She’s fifteen.’

‘I didn’t do this,’ Martin said. ‘I think there’s a problem, Sandy, I really do.’

‘You were a good boy,’ Sandra replied. ‘That’s why I married you. It looks like she has some of me in her. That’s all it is.’

‘Maybe,’ Martin said. ‘Maybe.’

Seven Days

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