There was a silence, in which Tara almost retracted what she’d blurted out. But Keith seemed to understand.

‘OK,’ he said easily. ‘Let’s talk about you. Have you got any plans to go away this summer?’

‘No, work’s still mad,’ said Tara automatically.

‘But you’ve had a hard year. The floods, your workload.’ Keith paused, then added, ‘Your mum. Can you take some time off in the autumn, maybe?’

She shook her head. ‘I used my holiday allowance to cover the volunteering.’

‘That’s no good. You need time to process. Time to look after yourself, not everyone else.’

Tara looked out of the window and swallowed down the lump in her throat. That tone was so familiar; not a memory, something lodged so deep inside her that she couldn’t remember knowing it. Her kneejerk reaction was to say, And what gives you the right to tell me that? but there was concern in his voice. He meant it, one adult to another.

They didn’t speak for a moment. A very long moment.

‘Is anyone looking after you?’ It was lightly asked but she could hear genuine concern.

‘I don’t need anyone to look after me.’ Tara’s defences rose again, and she smiled too brightly, scraping the last smudges of pea puree round the plate. ‘I’m managing perfectly well on my own. Believe me, I’ve got all the books and a crystal therapy bracelet.’

‘And Toby? Are you helping each other?’

Tara placed her knife and fork neatly together, unsure what to say. Her brother. Her twin. Yes, what was her brother doing to look after her?

‘He’s very busy,’ she said loyally. ‘It’s not easy, when we’re in different time zones.’

‘Ah, yes. The king of Instagram. He’s a funny guy.’

‘He’s done incredibly well,’ agreed Tara, ignoring the opportunity to tell Keith who Toby got that from – an opportunity she sensed had been lined up. ‘I love his photographs. I think he got his eye from Mum.’

Keith acknowledged it gracefully. ‘I think he did. I always assumed you’d be the writer, though. Wasn’t that the plan, once upon a time? That you’d be the family hack?’

It had been. Secretly, she’d planned the post-graduation Europe trip as if she’d been commissioned; it would have been her portfolio – food review here, vignette there, travelogue everywhere. But she’d let that dream go.

‘I don’t think I’d have been tough enough for journalism.’ Tara wondered if she’d have turned out like Toby if she’d been the one to make the break, if she’d developed his thicker skin and quicker wit. Or whether he’d always been like that, and that was the reason he’d gone.

‘I’m sure you would.’

‘Childhood dreams,’ she said, with a bleak smile that vanished like a ripple. ‘I prefer what I do now. Helping people. Fixing problems.’