She found her father and Marina in the kitchen, having tea. Her father was ruddy-cheeked, having been out fishing for most of the day, while Marina was glowing with happiness.
“Clementine,” she said, smiling up from the table, “come and join us.”
“How was your day?” asked her father.
“Dull.” Clementine unhooked a mug and helped herself to a tea bag.
“You’re earning money and gaining experience, which is very important.”
“Great, Dad. Thanks.”
“We’ve found our artist,” Marina announced.
“Hurrah!”
She ignored her stepdaughter’s sarcasm. “I think you’ll like him. He’s very handsome.”
“I’m not interested. Look, he’s your project. He’s got nothing to do with me. After all, I can’t paint and have no interest in art.” She poured water into her mug and added a dash of milk.
“Do you want to join us for dinner?”
“I’ll eat it in front of the telly.”
“We’re having bass. Your father caught it this morning.”
“Well, if there’s enough, I’ll have some.”
“Of course there’s enough,” said Grey proudly. “It’s a four-pounder, at least.”
“Wow, well done, Dad.”
“Fancy coming out with me this weekend?”
Clementine pulled a face. “Why?”
“Just thought you might like to come out in the boat. How are those sea legs of yours?”
“I’ve never had sea legs, Dad. I hate boats and the sea makes me sick, if you remember.”
“That was years ago.”
“I don’t think growing up changes either of those things.”
“It does change attitude,” interjected Marina coolly. “Why don’t you spend some time with your father?”
“Okay, so you’re bristling for another lecture. Is that it? I can’t run off in the middle of the sea.”
“No lecture, just haven’t seen much of you.”
“That’s because I’m working, Dad. Welcome to the real world.”
Marina’s good mood evaporated as Clementine sucked the air out of the room, replacing it with her dark presence. She glanced at her husband and felt nothing but contempt for her stepdaughter, who constantly rebuffed him.
“Another day, then,” said Grey, trying not to look disappointed.
6.
The following morning Mr. Atwood strode into the office, his natural good humor overshadowed by a thunderous look. Clementine, who felt a great deal better after a good night’s sleep, was already at her desk, looking at pictures of Buenos Aires on the Internet. Sylvia was late.
“If my wife hadn’t been so delighted with her pink mixer, I would sack you for the card you chose.”
Clementine hastily clicked out and pulled her most innocent face. “I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Atwood.”
“Don’t try that with me. You know exactly what I mean. The card was inappropriate, not to mention insulting.”
“Not to your wife, surely.”
“Of course not, you silly girl.”
“I thought it was funny.”
“So did she—at my expense.”
“Well, at least she had a laugh on her birthday.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You’re lippy this morning.”
“I had porridge for breakfast. It tends to make me a little feisty.”
“Well, have an egg tomorrow, instead. I don’t expect my secretary to answer back.”
“You could have read the card when you signed it.”
“I pay you to do that.”
She shrugged. “Did you have a nice dinner?”
“Yes.”
“That’s good.”
He huffed irritably and strode across the reception area to his office, straightening the magazines on the way. Clementine wondered whether he was the sort of man who folded his clothes before making love. She suspected he was.
Sylvia arrived looking uncharacteristically tousled.
“You look like you’ve got out of bed backwards,” Clementine remarked.
“I did,” she replied, grinning mischievously. “Freddie stopped by for breakfast, that’s why I’m late.”
“That’s the best excuse I’ve ever heard.” Clementine clicked into Buenos Aires again. “I think I’m going to go to South America instead of India.”
“You’re not still thinking of that Argentine, are you?”
“Dreams are cheap.”
“You get what you pay for.” Sylvia shot into the loos to tidy up. When she came out, her hair was neatly brushed into her usual updo, her makeup flawlessly applied, her floral dress without a crease. Clementine wondered how it was possible to do all that in the lavatory.