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“’I wish I was a woman of about thirty-six, dressed in black satin with a strong of pearls,’” Mab Churt read aloud. “That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said, you silly twit.”

“What are you reading?” her mother asked, flipping through an old magazine.

“Rebecca, Daphne du Maurier.” Mab turned a page. She was taking a break from her dog-eared list of “100 Classic Literary Words for the Well-Read Lady” – not that Mab was a lady, or particularly well-read, but she intended to be both. After ploughing through number 56, The Return of the Native (ugh, Thomas Hardy), Mab figured she’s earned a dip into something enjoyable like Rebecca. “The heroine’s a drip and the hero’s one of those broody men who bullies you and it’s supposed to be appealing. But I can’t put it down, somehow.” Maybe just the fact that when Mab envisioned herself at thirty-six, she was definitely wearing black satin and pearls. There was also a Labrador lying at her feet in this dream, and a room lined with books she actually owned, rather than dog-eared copies from the library. Lucy was in this dream too, rosy in a plum-coloured gym slip, the kind girls wore when they went to some expensive day school and rode ponies.