It had made a classic front-page photo: Keith, surrounded by representatives from every community group with an interest, waving spades and wearing yellow hard hats, even the baby from the Tea ’n’ Tots Baby Group. In addition to pointing out her mum, Pat, chair of the Troutbridge Crafters’ Circle, Chloe had told everyone who didn’t already know that the star architect was none other than Tara’s dad.

‘I could tell you were related, even before Chloe pointed him out,’ David added. ‘Definitely a family resemblance there!’

Tara side-eyed him as they powered down the long entrance to the park, heading towards the bandstand. ‘In what way?’

‘You’ve got the same eyes, very striking. Sorry, have I said something wrong?’ he added. ‘Are you two not close?’

‘Not really.’ She was trying not to pant, which was making long sentences a problem. It also meant she was revealing more than normal. ‘Parents divorced when I was ten. I barely know him.’

‘Would you like to slow down?’ he asked courteously.

Tara shook her head. ‘No, s’fine.’

‘And are things going as you expected?’

‘I’m not sure – what I expected.’ Her chest had tightened, even trying to condense the Dad situation into words.

‘Are things going as he expected?’

It was a good, if wrong-footing, question, and Tara was genuinely trying to work out what the answer to it was when she became aware of her phone ringing in her pocket.

She pulled it out, already braced for another call from Sian Bannon, but the name on the screen made her say, ‘Oh my God!’ out loud before she could even think.

Phil.

Tara stopped dead, swiped to answer and put the phone to her ear, leaving David marching on ahead, oblivious. ‘Phil?’

‘Hey, gorgeous.’

Tara’s whole body melted downwards in one lustful swoop at the sound of Phil’s voice in her ear. Stupid treacherous body.

‘How you doing?’ he asked, without a shred of irony. He sounded so close, and so casual, as if they’d seen each other just the other night.

‘I’m fine. No, I’m not. I’m … Where are you?’ Too late, Tara realized she’d planned to be distant when Phil finally called, not incoherent.

‘Back home. Listen, sorry for the radio silence,’ he breezed on, ‘but we need to catch up. I’ve missed you and your beautiful … self. You around next weekend?’

‘What? Um, yes.’ Her head was a jumble of ‘FLOWERS – Sybil – where have you been? – FLOWERS – dignity – WHO IS PUMPKIN?’, jostling like hysterical shoppers trying to shove their way through a tiny door into the January sales.

‘Fantastic. You choose a time and place and I promise you I’ll make up for being such a bad boyfriend. Hopefully by being a very, very bad boyfriend … What?’ The phone was muffled, presumably by his hand going over it, and some conversation raged out of earshot.