‘Tara!’ Keith had spotted her and was waving.

An acidy feeling crawled in Tara’s stomach. A weird first-date, exams, driving-test feeling. But at the same time, her heart beat harder to see her dad right there, smiling at her so his dark eyes crinkled when he got up and kissed her cheek. This time, she let him.

‘What’ll you have?’ Keith patted the sofa next to him. ‘Gin and tonic? Glass of wine? Libby’s just gone to get the gin menu.’

‘Just Diet Coke for me, I’m driving.’

‘You should try one of these fancy new gin-free gins.’ He indicated his empty glass. ‘Very good. You can barely tell the difference.’

Dad drinking low-alcohol gin? ‘Seriously?’

She wondered for a moment if he was joking, but it seemed he wasn’t when he nodded.

I must tell Toby that, thought Tara. Pigs did fly.

‘Isn’t this a lovely spot?’ His gaze travelled around the lounge, which was decorated in chalky shades of green. It was nice: soft armchairs and a marble fireplace filled with candles in tall hurricane lamps, deep sash windows with draped curtains framing a view into a garden of rose beds and fruit trees. The bedrooms were probably gorgeous, she thought wistfully. She and Phil were no stranger to a four-poster.

‘This dining’s a new venture for them,’ Keith went on. ‘Libby was telling me one of her friends worked in London at Chez Bruce, he’s trialling a chef’s table in the conservatory. It’s only been going a couple of months but she says they’ve had some very positive feedback from customers.’

‘Yes, someone at work had a special birthday dinner here.’ Bryan had raved about it, relating exactly how much it cost, course by course, until Judith had piously told him he ought to make an equal donation to the food bank and all hell had broken loose.

‘Good for them, I say.’ Keith topped up his glass with water from the silver jug on the table, offering her the bowl of cashews. Tara couldn’t get over her dad drinking water at cocktail hour. He’d always poured a whisky at 5 p.m. on the days when he’d worked from the studio. Even now, the smell made her think of him, and of bonfires and medicine; metal and fire. ‘End of the day’ drinks. He’d pour Tara a Diet Coke in the same heavy glass, clonking an ice cube in to match his. ‘Great to see people trying to make a go of it, especially with everything that’s happened lately. Do you know Libby and Jason?’

She shook her head, embarrassed. Dad had been in Longhampton about ten minutes and already he knew the names of the hotel owners, their business plans and where their chef had worked. ‘I’ve been pretty busy. With the floods.’ It came out a bit martyred.