1988

Dee, short for Dierdre so no wonder she preferred the abbreviation, told her all the time she was spoilt. Her older half-sister viewed her with disdain; her face a permanent sneer whenever Lillian was nearby.

Even at seventeen, Lillian knew this was to do with Dee's mother. Margaret loathed their father. Even with a daughter's prejudice, Lillian knew why. Happily married for ten years, or so she thought, Andrew left her for an air hostess, Lillian's mother. A gigantic leap of imagination on his part then.

Once, when she'd had too much champagne, Lillian's mother told her one of the first things she'd done for Andrew after he begged for it was the flight safety talk, stark naked. She stood in front of him, nipples hard and flesh goose-bumped in the cold, arms held out in front of her. "If we need to evacuate the aircraft, floor-level lighting will guide you towards the exit."

He often told the story at his golf club. Men envied him for it. When they passed the tale on to others, it swelled in detail. She did it while astride him. At the time, she was fully made up, her hair slicked into that chic chignon air hostesses favoured. She wore high heels throughout.

As an eight-year-old, Dee grew into adolescence backgrounded by her mother's bitterness. Spoilt was the mildest of the descriptions she gave her half-sister. Andrew had been generous with his alimony, but Margaret and Dee didn't live Andrew, Lucia and Lillian's lives. Their holidays were to Spain, not Mauritius; their shops were Marks & Spencer, not Harrods and Harvey Nicks.

Fatherhood second time round was different for Andrew too. Margaret followed the pattern of sixties mothers. A man's child was out of sight, out of mind. She changed all nappies and leapt out of bed at night as soon as Dee's cries sounded through the house. Lucia shared the experience with Andrew instead, moaning about heartburn towards the late stages of pregnancy and then telling him about every stage of Lillian's development.

"Look! She crawled today. Crouch down on the floor and hold your arms out. Maybe she'll come to you."

No wonder Lillian grew up, convinced of her special place in the world.

Marlowe agreed with Dee's assessment, but then he would know. If anyone had first-hand experience of privilege, it was Marlowe, a family friend. His father had gone to school with Andrew, and they'd stayed in touch over the years, the perfect old boy network. Andrew ended up in hedge fund investment and Larry headed to tax law. Clients queued up for advice on how best to keep your ill-gotten gains from the public purse.

Marlowe was two years older than Lillian. His mother, Arlene, was Maltese, and he inherited all her European glamour—dark hair, olive skin and brown eyes. Before she recognised it as sexual attraction, Lillian looked forward to the times he came to their house. His parents visited frequently. Marlowe came with them fifty percent of the time. The occasions he made it he'd obviously been dragged along.

At nineteen, though, he suddenly decided Lillian wasn't a write-off. He sought her out, talking to her about music. Lillian listened, enthralled. She'd no idea of music's significance. It was a blessing Marlowe was able to explain the nuances to her. He told her the bands worth listening to. Chart listing, Lillian naively assumed, showed success. Not so, Marlowe said. He despised that kind of thing.

Marlowe spent his formative years at Winchester College, one of the top private schools for boys in the country. There were plenty of ex-public-school boys who fancied themselves as musicians and who could afford to sneer at crass commercial success. Lillian wasn't a stranger to the public-school system, having spent the years from eleven to eighteen at a minor girls' public school.

But unlike her, Marlowe possessed the talents paid-for schooling taught boys—unshakeable self-confidence, a belief he should always be listened to and his absolute right to express his opinion, the latter the most important.

At that age, Lillian didn't argue. He told her stuff, and she heard it. The thought 'that's not right!' flashed up and she silenced it. Marlowe spoke. He decreed, and he proclaimed. It must be so. Once, she argued with him. She took only thirty seconds to realise her mistake. Back he came with a long lecture on why she was wrong, sentences that pointed out every single mistake she made. She muttered a few words in reply and he did the same. Last word. Always make sure you get it.

Lillian's words to Marlowe were always penultimate.

Childish, huh? The seventeen-year-old Lillian didn't realise. Marlowe was her hero. As she lay in bed at night trying to drift off into sleep, she fantasised about him. In her imaginations, dark-haired, swarthy-skinned Marlowe looked straight at her. "Lillian, I can't get you out of my head!" He did things to her in her dreams, things she had yet to work out.

She took out her sketch pad. Lillian's art talent materialised from nowhere. Andrew and Lucia only liked art if it was valuable, but their daughter doodled, drew and painted. Now, she itched to put Marlowe down in permanence. How to capture that grace, that insouciance? She crumpled countless papers trying. Marlowe's essence didn't lend itself to pen and paper easily. The sketches of him felt thin, the outline of pen and charcoal fading too fast from the page.

One day, Lillian's dreams came true. Be careful what you wish for.

Dee visited, her face twisted in its usual sour disdain. Big wow, she was setting up a TV company. Their father coo-ed. Lucia clapped politely, and Dee stomped off. No, she didn't want to stay for the party.

Lillian's parents held an annual summer party, designed to make others jealous of their home, lifestyle and assets. Outside caterers brought in food, drink and people to dish it out. Their neighbours, work colleagues and friends through Lillian came along. As a child, it had been brilliant as Lucia hired bouncy castles and clowns. Once you were a pre-adolescent, it was dreadful—you were too old for bouncy castles and too young to find adult chat interesting.

As a seventeen-year-old, it was back to brilliant. They let you drink—middle class people did that, reasoning it was what they did in France—your peers turned hot and intriguing, and parties became events you anticipated for months.

At ten pm, Lucia and Andrew decided to continue their suburbs party elsewhere. They picked up their keys and winked at others. Marlowe grinned as the old folks left, walking to the stereo system and replacing Marvin Gaye with Lenny Kravitz. The party remainers cheered.

"C'mon," he said, grabbing her elbow. "Let's go somewhere cooler."

Cooler meant several things. Literally, it was the height of summer. Even air-conned London suffered in the heat. Did he want to go outside, for example, and stand in their big garden breathing in great lung-fuls of fresh air? Or was it (pray god, yes), a dark, curtain-shadowed room where all kinds of mysteries previously unrevealed to Lillian unfolded?

Marlowe wound his way through the rooms and corridors of her home and pushed open her bedroom door.

Lillian's heart soared. The thing that spent so much time in her imagination, its exactness shadowy and unresolved, was about to happen.

Marlowe put on music, the Pixies this time. She recognised the track, her remark earning her his approval. Gratifying, really.

Marlowe sat beside her. "Fancy a spliff?"

Any private school that didn't feature marijuana somewhere stood out. She said yes and watched him expertly roll a tight-packed tobacco and illegal drug cylinder. The draw on it made her light-headed and dizzy, something you never admitted to another teen.

Lillian lay down, sinking into deep-down carpet and stretching out fingers and toes, burying both into soft fibres. The music played on and she closed her eyes. Time drifted, its minutes no longer sharply marked out.

Marlowe moved on top of her.

She giggled. He squished himself so hard on her chest, she almost choked. And that thing down there... that must be his cock. Funny, it didn't feel as she'd imagined it. When she saw it in text books and porn, it looked springier, something you could boing up and down, funny style. You put your finger on it, laughed and let it jump.

Marlowe's cock lacked the comedic touch, and Lillian wriggled, wondering if what she'd thought of in her mind was too far from reality. It seemed so.

He moved her dress, clutching a fistful of material in one hand and pulling it up. Lillian thought of her ribby chest and flat breasts. Did she want them exposed? Her hand moved against his, pushing the dress down where he pulled it up.

Marlowe's breathing had changed. It was ragged, an animalistic panting next to her ear that threated to turn to a growl any second soon. He shoved off the hand she'd placed on his, working to move her dress upwards.

"Marlowe, ah..."

He kissed her then, a mouth that fastened hard on hers, the tongue deep and probing. This Lillian liked. At first. Then it became too rough, his tongue pushing its way to her tonsils and his lips moving in a sawing motion.

She tried to draw back, the movement difficult as she was already on her back and there was nowhere for her to go. Why had she smoked that spliff? The smoke appeared to have paralysed her, turning her limbs to dead weight. Marlowe's other hand moved to her knickers. He lifted his hips so he could pull them off.

No. No. No.

Again, her hand moved. She caught the elastic, fingers curling around the band. He yanked anyway, and she heard the rip of fabric detaching. He moved, pushing himself up, his hand on her throat. The other hand unbuttoned his Levi's and shoved them down to his knees. The boxers came down too. Lillian, her head held in place, saw nothing of it.

But there was the solidity between her legs, pushing at the hole there.

Lillian didn't want this. It didn't resemble the fairy tale-style dreams that had taken place in her head. He hadn't talked of love or appreciation. No. No. No.

"Marlowe, please, I don't..."

The pushing continued. Lillian jammed her thighs together. It seemed to be the only thing she could do.

"Open your legs," the words perfunctory and said in a way that expected obedience.

Absolutely nothing like the fairy tale then. She didn't, and the grip around her throat tightened. Her legs spread, a y-shape.

"I don't want to..."

Lillian's wishes disregarded, Marlowe slammed into her. Her throat heaved with the pain of it. Would she ever feel okay down there again? It burned against the sides and her legs ached. How was this ever meant to be a good thing for women?

His movements speeded up, and he moaned. "Oh fuck, fuck, FUUCKKK." He collapsed on top of her, panting hard.

The man who pulled out of her and used his hands to push himself up differed to the one who'd been on top of her minutes earlier.

"I knew you'd be a tiger in the sack," he said, laughing as he patted out hands trying to find his jeans and boxers. "Our little secret, yeah?"

Lillian blinked, determined not to cry in front of him. He rolled another spliff, and she took it from him, fingers shaking. They sat on the floor, their backs against the bed. Lillian wondered at it. Only an hour earlier, had she seen the two of them like this, she'd have assumed that the best thing ever had happened to her. When oh when would he leave?

Marlowe talked about university. He was at Cambridge, reading history and politics. Student life was amazing, and he'd met all the right people, just as his father said he would. When the CD stopped, he got to his feet and stretched, his hands touching the ceiling.

"Better get back to that party before everyone starts talking!"

She watched him go, not bothering to follow. He didn't turn back.

Lillian's parents owned a large house—six bedrooms in total. It made it possible for her to ask to change rooms. There was no way in the whole wide world that this room was her haven anymore.