"Blimey!" Emmy laughed.

She looked at Niall, and Niall looked at her. They kept looking for a long time, long enough for there to be no doubt left whatsoever, and then he put his finger to her cheek and traced a line down her jaw.

"Oh, there you are," Sita said, almost on top of them. "We've only just been able to park the car. Have we missed anything?"

That evening, when the house was very quiet, Jay hid himself away in Emmy's sewing room, perfecting his blanket stitch. He felt proud of his banner idea. He was going to hang it across the Welsh dresser tomorrow, so that when they all sat down to eat, they would know what they were supposed to be celebrating. If Kat was coming home for a party, a party they'd better have.

He was a bit annoyed with his parents for behaving as if they needed reminding to be honest. "No one said it would be easy," his mum kept saying when little things went wrong. "Don't expect it to happen just like that." But it sounded very much to him as though she was talking to herself.

What about that "period of adjustment" they had kept telling him about in London? Don't expect it to be plain sailing, Jay, they had said. Don't expect this, don't expect that. There will be times when you miss your friends, and hate us for taking you away from them. But give it a chance. We're doing this for you as much as for us.

Well, he didn't miss his friends because he had new ones, better ones, ones who made him feel he counted. And he didn't hate his parents for taking him away from London. He might hate them for taking him back, though, and that was his fear. That was why this banner had to be so big, so that they'd get the message.

Licking the end of the cotton as he'd seen his mother do, he took three attempts to get it through the eye of the needle. The floorboards creaked once, then twice, on the landing outside the door and he held his breath, but the footsteps moved on. Then he settled down to find the rhythm of the stitch he'd been taught in Year Two when he had made a miniature Christmas stocking out of red felt and cotton wool, and all the boys had teased him for being a girl.

When he got to the end of the seam, he bit the cotton off the needle and flattened out the joined sheet to admire his work.

At his feet was a selection of recently developed photographs, taken since their arrival at Bodinnick. Shiny faces grinning from kitchen tables, step ladders, and garden ponds.

He'd noticed when he was sorting them out that people always did the same thing when confronted with a camera. Emmy made the error of poking her tongue out in every single one, as if she didn't know how to smile to order. Niall had a tendency to put his arm round Maya, or lift her up, or do something to her. Always Maya, never Asha or him, or even Lila; always, always Maya. His mum tilted her head toward the person next to her and opened her eyes wider than she usually did, giving her a fake startled look. The only one his dad was in was the self-timer they'd done on the first night. He was holding up a load of paper and Maya's fingers were poking up like rabbit ears behind his unsuspecting head. Jay didn't like the way she'd done that-he thought it made his dad look stupid-so he Sellotaped it to one of the top seams where no one would see it.

In his favorite photograph, he was center stage, standing on one foot, the other in the air, his arms outstretched, overbalancing, obscuring both his sister and Maya. He wouldn't have done that a month ago. A month ago, he would have lurked at the edges. He spent thirty seconds admiring himself, pleased with what he saw, and then fixed it in a prominent position in the center of the banner.

Next to him was a carrier bag full of discarded tester pots which had been sitting on the landing for weeks. When he tipped them out, ready to paint the words, he realized that the paper seal hadn't been broken on some of them. Perhaps Scott's mum was right. Perhaps his parents did have more money than sense.

On his knees, paintbrush in his hand, he began. In capital letters of varying heights, purples and thickness, he painted "ONE Whole MONTH" along the length of the sheet. The cloth puckered under the upward movement of the brush, and in places the emulsion seeped through onto the threadbare carpet.

As he waited for it to dry, he worked out that if each match pot had cost two pounds, the household had spent at least twenty pounds on choosing paint colors. And that was just for Maya's bedroom. That wasn't simple living, was it? Who were they trying to kid?

Outside her sewing room, Emmy slowed. There was the threshold to Niall's space-the space that would soon be shared with Kat again.

His bathroom door was wide open, a green towel was in a damp heap on the floor and puddles led to the bedroom. Beyond that, a radio burbled. Niall would be listening to it, wet and unclothed, preparing himself for the great return.

The thump of the May Day music was still beating inside her, making her want to burst in, throw herself on his bed, fling out her arms and give in. She wanted to dance with the 'oss just once, for old and new times' sake, but she knew she had to carry on putting one foot in front of the other until she reached her own room. It was almost too much effort.

Suddenly, she wanted something even more than the 'oss. She wanted closure on the last few weeks. She wanted to know where she stood, what would happen when Kat went back the next time, if their increased intimacy had changed things. All the issues that had been carried away with the beast this morning were back. The May Day music was fading to a feeble squeak.

Seeing his towel and his footprints, knowing that tomorrow there would be another towel and other prints, she just had to know. Even if the closure really was closure, she wanted it.

It took her ten brisk paces to get to her own space, where she picked up her mobile from the old walnut bureau.

ARE YOU DRY YET? she typed with shaking fingers. Then she put it back at the same angle, pointing toward the window where she knew the signal would be strongest. Even texting felt like a loss. Their recent messages had been a seamless string of not very important questions. Are you asleep? Did you get the bread? Fancy a beer? Just enough to keep them in secret touch.

Waiting for the bleep of reply, she sat on the bed looking at her swatches. As she picked up a red satin square, it rang.

"Hi," she answered, her voice as silky as the material she was fingering. She stood precariously at the edge of the dressing table against the wall. If she moved, he could so easily disappear.

"Yes I am," he said. "And thank you for asking."

"Are you dressed as well?"

"No."

"So you're stark bollock naked?"

"I am."

"Well, don't get cold."

"I won't."

She realized she was going to have to spell it out. "I, er, I thought we ought to have a talk."

"Is talking on mobiles when you're in the same house allowed?"

"Probably not." Emmy didn't care about rules anymore.

"So if we were being sensible, we would put our phones down and come and find each other."

"Yes, we would, but we're not, are we, so we won't. Anyway, you'd have to put some clothes on for that." Damn. She frowned at herself for taking the conversation in the opposite direction to the one she wanted it to go in.

"I'm too hot for clothes," he said.

She began to feel the pound of desire again, which was no good for closure at all. "Hot baths are bad for you. You had better lie down."

"Had I?"

"A rush of blood can be very dangerous."

"So I've heard. What are you doing up here?"

"How do you know I'm up here?"

"I heard you go past."

"Did you? I nearly came in to see you."

"I know. I was hoping you would." He sat down. "What are you doing?"

"Standing up."

"Have you still got your boots on?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Have you still got your boots on?"

"Why do you want to know that?"

"I just do. I want to know everything about you. So, have you?"

"Well, yes, I have."

"They're so sexy, those boots. What about your skirt?"

"You noticed."

"You knew I'd notice."

"Uh huh."

"Take it off."

Emmy laughed but she knew she would do what he'd asked.

"Go on, take it off," he said again. His voice had changed gear. It was slower, deeper. "Take your skirt off but leave your boots on."

"Why should I want to do that?"

"Because the visual image interests you," he said.

"You or me?"

"Me."

"What right have you got to tell me to take my clothes off?" she asked, unbuttoning her skirt and letting it fall to the ground. Then she moved her free hand to run her fingers over her stomach and across the top of her pants just to see if she felt desirable. She did. Her long legs looked good in her flat suede boots and she found herself mesmerized by the strong erotic image. "There."

"Have you done it?" He sounded surprised.

"Yeah."

"God, Emmy, have you really?"

"Yeah."

"What else are you wearing?"

"A black vest and my jacket."

"The denim one?"

"Yes."

She thought she heard him groan.

"Take the vest off and put the jacket back on."

"Why?" she asked again.

"Because you want to."

"Make me," she said.

"Make me make you."

"Just say that again a little slower."

"I can make you. I just have to ask you. Take your clothes off for me, Emmy."

He heard her put the phone down on a surface. She took her jacket off, laid it on the bed, threw her vest on the floor and put the jacket back on. She stared at herself, liking it.

"Can you see yourself in the mirror?"

"Uh huh."

Niall lay back on the bed, and they stopped speaking for a while, listening to each other's changing breathing patterns.

"Do you want me?" she whispered.

"I do, I really do."

"Tell me."

"I want you."

"Tell me again."

"Emmy, come here," Niall said in an urgent, quiet voice. "Come to me. Please."

"No. You come here." And she moved away from the mirror, her hand hanging by her side, holding the phone, her legs slightly apart, waiting for his footsteps.

He walked in, dropped his towel and took the phone from her hand, switching it off. Then he took her face in his hands and their tongues flicked in each other's mouths. Emmy put her arms above her head and he moved to kiss her breasts.

"And I want you," she said.

"You've got me."

"No. You don't understand. I want you forever."

"You've got me for as long as you want." She could feel his heartbeating through her skin.

They both thought of the single thump of the drum, the crowd's roar, the swirling dance of the beast. She took his finger again and pulled it down the side of her face. Now wasn't the time to hold him to any life promises.