I went quietly into Pippa’s room, stepping over the mess and trying not to disturb it. You’d think it would be impossible for her to notice any changes, but even chaos like this had its own order. I saw a bottle of nail varnish standing on the floor, and then I remembered her, sitting in the bed, breasts half uncovered and an amused smile on her face. I unscrewed the top and tipped it over with my foot so it spread over a delicate shirt. I found several pairs of tights and dragged my fingernails down them to create ladders. I spat into a little pot of lip balm. There.

I went up the stairs as quietly as I could, so that Mick didn’t hear me, and opened the door to Astrid’s room. For a few seconds I just stood in the centre, relishing the quiet of her space. It occurred to me that her room was the twin of mine, which was on the floor above and also looked over the street. But this one was freshly painted, and it smelled of coconut, citrus fruit and lavender. I took the few steps to where her toiletries stood on a shelf and sniffed them in turn, learning them. It was clean, tidy and peaceful, just as I like rooms to be. I flicked through the clothes hanging in her wardrobe. There weren’t many – Pippa probably owned ten times more – but I liked what there was. Nothing frilly or fussy, nothing shoddily made. I put my face among the hanging folds and breathed in her scent. Then I turned to the chest, opening each drawer in turn and rummaging through the contents. I put a pair of black knickers in my pocket. She had very little makeup. I took one lip-gloss.

I thought I heard a sound coming from Mick’s room above, so I went out and stood in the hallway, listening. Nothing. I pushed open the door to Owen’s room and stood at its threshold. Photographs were stacked against every wall, some with their backs turned to me but others in plain view. Women’s faces in four-colour black stared sightlessly at me and suddenly my limbs were heavy and my skin prickled. It was starting in my head. I was under water, with things wavering around me, not holding their proper shape.

I heard the front door open. I backed out and pulled the door shut quietly, then turned, went into my own room and lay on my bed, waiting for the ticking in my left eye to go away. I heard voices. Miles, I thought, and someone else: a woman, but not Astrid or Pippa. I don’t know how long I lay there, whether or not I slept, but when I went downstairs Dario was awake, sitting on the sofa smoking a cigarette, and Mick was frying eggs at the stove. The smell made me feel sick again. Miles was there, and so, too, was the woman whose voice I had heard. She was tall and striking and had flawless skin, but her face was discontented and her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. She reminded me of a bird of prey, a hawk perhaps. I told myself I had to be careful.

Chapter Twenty-nine

Mick was sitting at the table and Astrid was at the stove. She was wearing blue jeans and a light brown T-shirt. She was barefooted again, leaning up to reach a saucepan down from a high shelf. The effort pulled her shirt up, exposing the smooth brown skin of her lower back.

‘Sorry,’ I said, turning to go.

‘That’s all right,’ said Astrid. ‘Join us.’

I thought of my instruction manual. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

She laughed. ‘I’m cooking one of my special recipes. Pasta accompanied by spicy red pesto bought from a deli, sprinkled with cheese, plus red wine.’

‘Sounds fantastic,’ I said.

‘It is,’ said Astrid. ‘Even I can’t fuck it up.’

I found Mick disconcerting. He was like a smooth wall that provided no fingerholds. He didn’t seem to find it awkward to stay silent. He looked at me for a moment, then got up and collected plates, forks and glasses, three of each. He took a bottle of red wine from a carrier-bag on the floor, opened it and poured some into each glass. I picked up mine.

‘Cheers,’ I said, too quickly. Astrid was stirring pasta in the saucepan and Mick just stared at his glass. It felt like an awkward moment but then Astrid smiled, picked up hers and took a gulp from it.

‘Mick and I were talking about travelling,’ she said. ‘Have you done much, Davy?’

Lying is like a really good tool. It’s a tool for manipulating people, for controlling them. You can tell them what they want to hear; you can make them think you’re a particular person. The point of lying is to have different lies for different people. Different people need different lies, the way that different jobs need different tools. If you have just one lie for everyone, you might as well tell the truth because the truth is much easier. If you’re telling the truth, you don’t need to think because the truth automatically fits together neatly. Lies aren’t like that. You have to make them fit. And you have to remember which lie you’re telling at any particular time, and to whom, and if it fits with every other lie you’ve told and whether anything could happen, today, tomorrow or the day after to expose it. Knowing when not to lie is part of the skill. I knew, I just knew, that Mick and Astrid were talking about travelling because they had both done a lot. And I would so much like to have said yes, so that I would have been part of the club. But then they would ask where and I would name some place, and it would turn out that one of them had been there and it would go terribly wrong. It would only take something as small as that to ruin everything in the house and force me to leave.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Where have you been?’

‘Round Europe mainly,’ said Astrid. ‘ India, a bit in the Far East, Australia. Nothing like Mick.’

‘Where have you been, then?’ I said to Mick.

He made a dismissive gesture. ‘I just got back from Latin America,’ he said. ‘I was there a couple of years.’

I thought of my book, my manual on how to be a real person. Bring people out, it advised. There’s no such thing as a bore. All a good talker needs is a good listener.

‘What’s the best place you went to?’ I asked Mick. ‘Where would you really recommend?’

He thought for a moment. ‘ Brazil,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘Number one.’ He held up one finger. ‘The rainforest. Two: the Amazon. Three: big, noisy, exciting cities. Four: the dancing. Five: the cachasa.’ He started on the fingers of his other hand. ‘Six: the music. Seven: the beaches. Eight: excellent dope.’ This was the most I’d ever heard Mick say, but he continued. ‘Then there’s the women.’

‘Number nine on your list,’ I said lightly, pleased to see Astrid grinning, but Mick scowled as if I was mocking him.

‘They’re the most amazing women in the world. Present company excepted.’

‘Oh, shut up, Mick,’ said Astrid, heaping pasta on to the plates.

‘And it’s cheap.’

‘Sounds great,’ I said. ‘How’s your Spanish?’

Mick looked at Astrid.

‘Portuguese, in fact,’ said Astrid. ‘ Chile and Peru and the rest speak Spanish.’

‘Yes, I knew that,’ I said. ‘I meant when you were travelling round the rest of South America. Actually, I was thinking of learning Portuguese.’

‘Really?’ said Astrid. ‘Everyone says it’s a lovely language.’

Fuck, I thought. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. I’d told the truth to stop myself looking stupid and I’d made myself look stupid anyway.

The next day I went to the bookshop and found a guide-book to South America. Brazil really did look good. Ten days later, I was sitting in a class at an institute in Clapton with several businessmen, a few white-haired retired men and women and a couple of younger people I couldn’t make out. Introductory Portuguese taught by a middle-aged woman, fat, bespectacled, Portuguese, but not at all the kind of woman Mick had been talking about. Week four. It was late March by now and I’d missed weeks one, two and three but I told the woman in the office I’d catch up.

Several days later, when I met Mick in the hall, I said in a cheery voice, ‘Bom dia.’