Toby helped fasten it round Molly’s slender neck, while she held up her dark hair, released from its usual plait into Pre-Raphaelite ripples. As their heads bent together, Tara caught the undisguised emotion in her dad’s face. He looked overwhelmed. Was this how he expected it to go? she wondered. How had he imagined it would play out – the party, the gathering of his children? In his ex-wife’s house?

Toby’s present was a pink instant camera.

So was Tara’s.

‘How did you …?’ She boggled at her brother over the pile of crumpled giftwrap, surprised and a bit delighted. It was years since they’d done something like that; there’d been a time when they’d regularly get identical test results, or send identical birthday cards. It was a long time since she’d been able to read Toby’s mind, or he hers.

He shrugged. ‘I dunno. I just thought … they’ve come back in style.’

‘I can swap mine for something else,’ Tara told Molly. ‘Choose whatever you like – we can go shopping tomorrow, if you want?’

Molly hugged the boxes. ‘No, it’s perfect. I’d rather have two, because you both thought of me and chose the same.’

This is going to be all right, thought Tara, buoyed up on the glass of champagne Toby had brought out for himself and for her. Not for Dad. He didn’t even offer Dad a glass, which told Tara they’d spoken about it.

‘Squeeze up so I can take a photo!’ Molly ordered, and Toby and Keith leaned in close to her, already saying, ‘Cheeeeeeese!’

‘You smell,’ Toby informed her.

‘Can we stop this now, please? It’s not funny.’

‘Well, you do.’

‘You both smell,’ said Keith.

Tara laughed in protest and Molly took the photo. The first family photo of her, Dad and Toby for twenty-three years.

They all looked drunk in it, even Keith.

Molly took lots more – Toby had had the foresight to get plenty of film – but Tara noticed that that photograph was the one Keith slid into the inside pocket of his linen jacket.

‘I fancy a drink,’ said Toby, just after six. ‘Anyone else?’

Tara started to get up, but he waved her back down. ‘No, you’ve done enough today. What can I get you? Gin and tonic?’

‘That would be nice, actually.’

‘No problem. Where do you keep your booze?’

‘In the sitting room, on the cocktail wagon.’ Ruth had, of course, an original Art Deco cocktail wagon, the only item of furniture Tara was excited about inheriting. She almost didn’t want Toby to see it, in case he tried to bagsy it.

‘Dad?’

‘I’ll stick with this botanical non-gin malarkey.’ He indicated the bottle. ‘Maybe bring some ice?’

They watched as Toby strolled into the house, swinging his arms and whistling.