She stood facing the bathroom mirror, toothbrush in hand. Looking at her blocking the sink James said, jocular, friendly, avoiding any risk of confrontation, “why are you wearing your dressing gown?” Their teeth brushing and nightly routines in general were pretty relaxed. “Oh” she said nonchalant waving a vague hand, “I’m just feeling the cold a bit”. A germ in his head scowling, a silent voice venomous, “You’re always bloody cold”, but instead a momentary silence. He turns away saying kindly, “shall I put the heat up a bit … it’s already at 25”. A mannered, polite “no need, I’ll be fine” as she turned her head to the side, a wintery and glittered smile fixed on her face.  “You probably got a chill. You were quite late back”. He didn’t notice the smile set harder, the slow tensing and of the shoulders, nor their slight rising as the arms followed. Nor did he notice a sharp quick stripe, bright red, white and blue. The toothpaste tube clutched suddenly tight was quickly spewing, running headlong, a telltale path that jumped across the sink and skipped around the running water. A signature of deceit. “No, no” she said, her voice in a vice. “I’m fine”. And hurriedly splashing water and spitting noisily to keep blocking him, afraid of her blush and to quickly wash away that accusing scrawl.  Under the duvet, still in her dressing gown as James simmers, angry. Their faux warmth fast becoming a habit, the insincere becomes the normal yet still he wants to reach out. He says good-night proffering a hopeful peck on the cheek, but it barely makes it passed her rigid shoulder. He heard the deliberate and measured snore. He heard the darkness grow. In the morning James was gone early. And she still in the dressing gown lay idle and smug in bed, not thinking of James in the traffic and the early morning. She remembered yesterday, reliving snatched hours and noting that another man’s beard had left bristle marks on her inner thigh. The fingerprints on her upper arms, were sliding to pale buttered yellow as she lay remembering. Warm, unvanquished, spiteful. Such malice she felt as she lay there, revelling in her deception and James’ oafish stupidity. The ’phone jangled her back to the now. Oafish James was ringing from the car. She doesn’t answer. She knows he’s wanting to remind her, again, that he’ll collect her on the way to the airport. She knows. Her daughter is coming to Sussex on a fleeting visit from Dubai. She ponders that it would be far more entertaining if the visit wasn’t fleeting, because James cannot stand Nina. It is sport for Nina to tease her stepfather. Nina enjoys being impolite, saying outrageous things and watching as James works with eyes raised staring at the middle distance and breathing slowly, to control his temper. Her mother will look on, a slight smirk on her face, eyes hard and impenetrable. The sport had been even funnier when she was younger and when her mother was still impressed with James and defended his bluster, his bouts of petty temper, his passion. All that now gone. For all these years he had tried so hard to be an dedicated stepfather. But Nina could tell he never really meant it, and she had throughout her teens watch his efforts slowly fall into a fake habit that she could provoke at will. Heading home in the car the conversation was falling away. She marvels at how long Nina and James can drag out a conversation about immigration queues and baggage. James’s ample stomach brushes the steering wheel and it’s enough to remind him that he is hungry. “What do you say we stop off for a bite?” They mumble and hesitate, and she’s vaguely annoyed for no real reason. “Come on, it’s getting close to dinner time anyhow,” and so they agree. Yes. “We’ve no food in in any case” she says, now good natured with Nina there and the prospect of wine, momentarily happy. “I ran out of time when I was in town yesterday”, the hint of a blush started to rise and she turned away. Looking out of the window as they creep through the traffic, her eyes flickered to focus on each passing stranger in case it might be someone she knows. They eventually leave behind commuters’ traffic and stop at a pub. It’s all beams and early evening emptiness, the light showing up the dust and leftover rings on the tables. It’s one of those country places newly taken over, with an anxious publican looking for a quieter life. A shock of grey hair gelled ruthlessly flat and a small diamond in one earlobe, single, celibate and building up a local clientele, people who share his love of single malts and appreciate the patience he brings to the job. But he’s not sure if he can settle to this quieter life, so he frets and chews at the skin around his thumbnails. His staff this evening is a bored young woman waiting for better things. She’s halfway through her A levels and unaware that the better things too are waiting. They want to be found and will not be served up on demand. She hands James the menu offhand and careless, and forgets to tell them that the specials are on the board. “Looks promising”, James says almost drooling as he ambles to the bar. He’s conscious of his stepdaughter’s censorius eye. The barely concealed sneer that says “too much pie and mash, a few too many pints and pasties.” That malevolent germ creeps back. “She’s too keen on the gym for her own good”, it says. When he returns from the bar, white wine spritzers in hand, they are whispering, heads bowed. Nina is laughing, and looks away as he reaches the table. A sudden rumbling, nameless anger.