Tara put her hand to her mouth to stop herself saying something she might regret, and as she stepped back, she felt something brush against her leg. She spun around in shock. ‘What …?’

The Labrador was standing right behind her. And standing about ten feet behind the Labrador was Molly.

Tara forced her face to smile, although she was still raging inside.

‘Were you talking about me?’ Molly asked. Her voice was high.

‘No! We were talking about supper,’ Keith lied, easily. ‘I know it’s a bit late, but do you fancy something to eat? Tara? Would you like to join us for a nibble? I can rustle up some cheese on toast?’

‘No.’ It came out sharply. A splinter of glass in the genial atmosphere that Keith liked to create around him.

Immediately, habitually, Tara threw out excuses. ‘No, I’m sorry. I’ve been working all day. I need to … I need to feed Sybil. Get things ready for tomorrow.’

‘Of course.’

Molly was watching them with her wide-set blue eyes. Slightly too big for her face. Slightly too old for her face too.

‘Goodnight, Molly.’ Tara raised her hand, as if her words weren’t strong enough to get her meaning across. ‘Nice to meet you. And Lloyd.’

And she walked out of the studio, across the lawn, through the bifold doors that her dad had installed in their kitchen, and poured herself a big glass of wine while Sybil watched her from the velvet love seat.

Then Tara curled up on the sofa, and cried and cried.

Tara went through the motions of going to bed at eleven but it was pointless because there was no way her brain was going to sleep. Her head throbbed and pounded, rerunning the events of the evening, and slowly the tears solidified into something harder: indignation and anger.

She threw back the sheets and grabbed her phone to call Toby.

When he didn’t answer, she called again. And again. And again.

I need you, Toby, she thought fiercely, forcing her words like distress flares into the night sky. I need you now, so don’t you dare ignore me.

He picked up on her fifth call.

‘Hey, Tara – you OK? What time is it with you?’

‘I don’t know.’ She glanced at her watch; the moon was throwing a silver light into the room, bleaching the furniture into monochrome. Sybil was a featureless black comma on the bedside chair. ‘Ten to four. Doesn’t matter, I need to talk to you about Dad.’

‘Dad? What’s happened? Is everything OK?’

‘No.’ Tara closed her eyes. Where to start?