‘Yeah, yeah.’ There was some noise on the end of the line – someone shouting. ‘Look, I’ve got to go, I’ve got a deadline. Take some melatonin, get some sleep.’

‘I’ve run out.’ It had been Toby’s one useful post-funeral gift to her: a huge bottle of prescription-strength melatonin to get her through the sleepless nights after Mum died. ‘You’ll have to send me some more.’

‘I might be able to bring you some more,’ he said unexpectedly. ‘There’s an outside chance I might have a couple of commissions in London next month. Someone’s dropped out. I could pop over.’

Pop over to London. Toby’s entire career had been building up to making comments like that.

‘OK. Well, I’ll be here.’ She stared out of the window towards the studio. ‘With Dad. And our half-sister.’

‘Be the bigger person, sis,’ said Toby. ‘Make them breakfast. Speak soon.’ And he hung up.

Across the garden, the full moon was making the lawn look like a beautiful skating rink. Smooth and inviting, as if you could swirl from patio to studio in a series of lovely arcs. Hero would probably have something to say about the moon, thought Tara. It’s probably significant. Revelations and women and what have you.

She looked one more time at the soft light in the studio, and with a sigh, tucked her feet back under her mum’s fine Egyptian cotton sheets and tried to fall asleep.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

‘… and as far as I know, they’re having breakfast in there now. He’s probably doing his famous scrambled eggs.’

Tara finished and slumped back in the chair. The cappuccino in front of her had lost its froth some time ago. Probably about twenty minutes ago, around the point where she was ‘explaining’ how her own brother felt it wasn’t a problem that their dad had brought his replacement daughter and her replacement dog to her childhood home.

Her throat was bone-dry with talking non-stop. Dad’s transgressions sounded satisfyingly worse – which made her own reaction feel less infantile – and pinning down her feelings with words was, as Tara told her own clients, the first step to taking back control. Once you’d articulated what was hurting you, you could begin to work on it, shuffling the broken pieces into a better order. Making sense of it, restructuring everything with yourself back at the centre.

A familiar pause settled over the table: the tiny interval in which the momentum shifted from one person to the other. The problem was temporarily suspended in the air, its messy trail contained in the silence, no one’s weight to carry just for a moment.

‘OK.’ Emily blinked hard. ‘Wow. That’s a lot. Don’t take this the wrong way, Tara, but do you think you should really be here?’