It was a party sometime in the early nineties. She’d found the photograph in the pages of Delia Smith’s Christmas, one of the many cookery books she’d carted down to the charity shop. Mum was deep in her Liza Minnelli period (raven pixie-cut, sooty eyeliner and a ‘bold red lip’ working hard against a spangly blazer, rolled up to the elbows). Toby and Tara were centred, with matching bowl-cuts and non-matching T-shirts (The Clash for Toby, a ladybird for her), and between them, his hands on their small shoulders, was Dad. He was holding court in his velvet jacket, black hair smoothed in a slight quiff, smiling at the camera with a bonhomie that Tara remembered so clearly she could almost smell it: smoky Lagavulin and Eau d’Hadrian, and cedar balls from the wardrobe where the jacket hung in between parties.

That party had definitely happened. It had happened here, in the newly finished kitchen-diner – to celebrate the final work being completed. Keith’s first major renovation had transformed a standard post-war four-bed into a mid-century masterpiece of bold lines, Scandinavian wood, skilfully harnessed light and a seamless extension that led the eye out from the marble counters into the deep green of the garden, at the bottom of which rose Keith’s airy home studio, a pale ark of pine and glass amidst the trees. Two storeys: the upper floor flooded with light, perfect for inspiration; downstairs, perfect for escaping. It had been the start of an architecture career that had taken him away from Longhampton – and from them.

On the back, in her mum’s writing, was the date: 18 August 1992. Early in the evening, thought Tara, noting the untouched plate of salmon blinis and the relative absence of empty glasses on the table in front of them. She took a photo of it on her phone and sent it to Toby, hoping it might prompt a response.

Keith Hunter was now sixty-four, not the ambitious thirtysomething in the velvet jacket. The last time Tara had seen her dad in the flesh had been at her graduation, twelve years ago. The hair was still dark, the bold Elvis Costello glasses had been toned down to tortoiseshell frames, the confidence mellowed into assurance. She’d noticed then how her mum had watched him, eagle-eyed, and wondered if she was checking for signs of change the same way Tara was. She’d wondered if Mum still cared. He hadn’t brought a plus one, although Toby’s internet sleuthing unearthed an opera singer called Helen, and Mum had gone alone, and talked constantly about the joys of independence.

Dad put on a good show that day, Tara had to concede. Champagne, flowers, a certain energetic charisma that impressed her friends and tutors.