‘Tara, I’m not going to tell you what to do, but in a client-centred workplace such as ours …’ Jacqueline started, and Tara turned around like a schoolgirl caught smelling of cigarette smoke.

It turned out Jacqueline’s reproachful gaze was surprisingly effective.

‘I’ll go home,’ said Tara.

‘I think that would be for the best.’

The house was peaceful when Tara got back; no sign of activity in the studio windows, no note in the letterbox from her dad.

She felt relieved but couldn’t help being curious about what was going on at the bottom of the garden. Although, was ‘curious’ the right word? What was Dad thinking, bringing Molly to this house? Was there really nowhere else to go? Didn’t Sarah have parents, or friends?

Tara didn’t enjoy examining her less generous instincts.

Sybil was sprawled out on the kitchen counter, meditating in a pool of warm sunshine; she didn’t get up when Tara dumped her bag on the chair, but flicked a tail in welcome, more like a dog than a cat.

Now Tara was home she wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do. She drank a cup of tea and made a half-hearted attempt to book an appointment with a family counsellor from the list Emily had emailed her. She started with the only one whose name wasn’t familiar from local networking events.

‘They’re good,’ Emily had added reassuringly, ‘and properly qualified.’

They were so good that none of them had any availability for a fortnight at the very earliest, and after the fourth phone call, Tara booked a phone appointment and gave up for the day.

She looked around the house for something useful to accomplish, and her eye fell on the latest Sindy doll waiting to be posted to the winning bidder on eBay.

It was a rare Free Wheelin’ Sindy (‘Wheels that really MOVE!’) still in its box, like nearly all Ruth’s collection, and had made enough to pay the quarter’s electricity bill. Tara had refereed a convoluted argument between her conscience and the pile of bills the house seemed to generate all on its own, and concluded that if Ruth hadn’t spent her savings on Sindys, Tara might not now have to sell them to pay the council tax too.

She started to gather everything she needed – cardboard box, Sellotape, her laptop – and tried to stop her gaze from flicking towards the garden, and the studio. It was impossible, of course. Question after question popped up in her mind, and all the answers were down there. In the studio.

For a second – a heart-stopping second – she thought she saw Branston on the lawn. Patient, loyal and loving Branston, waiting for her.