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only the way it had been with her？ She could not bear that truth； even now。 Dredging it up was like an act of cruel masochism； like opening the edges of a slowly healing wound and probing for the nerve。
She had used her father's name then … and his money。 God only knew how much； certainly she did not。 Wasn't it the money that had made her weak and lazy？ So easy to pin down the blame； neatly and resolutely； ing back to her father。 How she hated him for giving her … those things： his name （she always wrote the word out on the screen of her mind so that she could make the deliberate typo fame which was； as far as she was concerned； no error） and his money。
God； this thing makes me nasty and bitter； she thought。 As if it's a physical malady that manufactures bile as a by…product。 She gagged again but； wrapping her arms around her stomach； she held herself together； there was nothing more to e up； she was empty yet the anxiety made her feel as if she had swallowed a two…by…four whole。
I can't do it； she repeated to herself。 I can't。
She had taken his money … so much of it … not thoughtlessly but wilfully。 Because she hated him。 But she found that getting it was like having the goblet of wine that was always full no matter how much you drank。 What had mattered so ^much to her was of absolutely no concern to him。
Of course it had mattered very much to Chris； who was the one； after all； who made use of most of the money。 At least that was how it had all e down that day when her father had flown in； had e to her house with the battery of local detectives he had hired。 It had all been there for her to read in the report。 The thing had so shocked her that she had hardly been able to utter a word let alone protest as her father had his men gather up her clothes； all her possessions。 He left them to it； hustling her outside and into the waiting limo。 She had not said a word all through the flight back east。 Her father； sitting across the' aisle in the private Lear jet； was too engrossed in reports to notice。 She found that she was not hungry； nor was she tired。 She was nothing。
It seemed like a long time ago now。 Years could be like lifetimes； never like days。 This is what came to her on the plane ride back to New York： she saw their old country house； the one in Connecticut that she had loved so much； with the stone walls covered with green creeping ivy； the high leaded…glass windows； the flagstone patio and； across the emerald back lawn； beyond the unpaved avenue； the brick…red of the stables； smelling of hay and manure and horse sweat。 How she loved that place； it reminded her of England； somehow。 Not like the new place on Gin Lane out on the Island。 Her father had sold the old house just after Justine's mother had died； paying two and a half million for the estate on one of the most famous streets in all America。
It was Easter…time in Connecticut。 She was eight。 Gelda had some friends over； whom she did not like or just did not want to be with。 Her mother was gone； having driven into town to do some shopping。 She wandered through the enormous old place； the large bright friendly rooms filled； here and there； by the busy servants preparing for a formal party later that evening。 Peering out of the window； she discovered that
there were a number of cars in the semicircular driveway and； as she went down the long curve of the main stairway to the ground floor； she could just make out voices ing from behind the closed doors of the library。 Her hand on the knob； turning； and she pushed。
'Daddy？'
Her father had indeed been inside。 He was with a group of men； discussing matters that had no meaning for her。
'Justine；' he said with a frown； 'you must see that I am busy at the moment。' He made no move towards her。
'I just wanted to talk to you。' She felt utterly dwarfed by the circle of men。 One of them shifted unfortably on the couch； the leather creaking under his weight。
〃This is not the time。 Shall I fetch Clifford。' The latter had the form but not the inflection of a question。
She looked around mutely。
Her father reached up and pulled a cord。 In just a moment； the manservant appeared。
'Yes； sir？'
'Clifford；' her father said。 'See that she is kept occupied until Mrs Tomkin returns； will you？ I can't have any more interruptions。 Doesn't Gelda have some friends here？'
'Yes； sir。'
'Well； that's the place for her then； eh？'
'Very good； sir。' He turned。 'e along； Miss Justine …'
But she had already turned； running down the； long； high hallway； slamming out through the front door。 She could hear Clifford clattering away behind her。 She liked Clifford。 She spent a lot of her time with him； just talking。 But right now she did not feel like being with anyone。
She sped around the side of the house； headed for the stables； and was quite out of breath by the time she got there。
They had six horses。 Arabians。 Her favourite was King Said。 He was her horse； to all intents and purposes。 But of course the children； though already good riders； were not allowed on horseback or even in the stables without an adult to supervise。 Justine did not really care about that now。 She went down the straw…strewn centre aisle until she came to King Said's stall。 She called to him and apparently he heard； for there came
to her his slight snorting and stamping； he was eager for a canter。 He poked his head out； it bobbed up and down。 His powerful neck thrust far above her； his coat shone。 She wished that she could reach up and stroke him but she was far too short。
That's when she thought about opening the stall door。 She was just lifting the iron latch when Clifford caught up with her。
'Oh； Miss Justine； you must never； never do that …'
But she had already whirled into his arms； clinging to him； crying inconsolably。
The return to New York had* presaged a low point in her life。 Filled with an anxiety she could not control； she turned in desperation to a psychiatrist。 At first it appeared to be no help at all。 But that was an unfair assessment。 It was； after all； a highly subjective one and she was perhaps so low that she could then perceive no change； however minute。 It was like lying sleepless in her bed； staring out of the window at the east； night still clinging tenaciously； looking at her watch； knowing dawn was not far off but seeing no band of light。 Not yet。
It was； in retrospect； really a time of retrenchment。 She had no job； could not face that； but she began to sketch； returning to the craft she had once loved。 Slowly she built up a current portfolio and at length she was ready to go out。
It was not nearly so bad as she had imagined … she had not slept for two nights before the interviews； terrified … and she had got a job at the second agency she went to。 But doing a job that she liked； she soon found； was not nearly enough （did she know； then； that she was well again？）。 Of course she knew why。 But the thought of being involved again was intolerable to her。
Thus is was that she discovered dance。 She went to a class one night with a friend from the office and fell instantly in love。 Now she channelled her excess energy into her body； adoring the concept of controlled rhythm； the