‘Daddy?’ Molly had slipped off her chair. ‘Daddy? Is it OK if I go inside and read? I’m too hot.’

Keith stretched out an arm and she leaned comfortably into him. ‘Yes, of course, sweetie pie. Are you bored of the adult conversation? Are we a bit dull?’ He tickled her. ‘Are we boring you?’

‘No!’ Molly giggled and squirmed.

They made a sweet picture, thought Tara. She probed the feelings swirling in her chest; what was the dark edge on the warm affection she felt towards Molly? It wasn’t jealousy any more, it was … anxiety. An anxiety that Keith was going to let Molly down exactly as he’d let her down, this time with Niamh as the agent of his unexpected departure.

And what about her mother? Where was Sarah? Why hadn’t she rung?

Maybe Molly’s going to ring her now, Tara reasoned. Maybe that’s why she wants to be on her own. So she can separate her loyalties out, play down the fun for Mum.

Toby was coming back with a tray of drinks, pushing open the doors with his elbow. Molly gave Keith a kiss, gathered up her presents and ran down the garden, Lloyd following at her heels. Tara watched her father watching Molly as she went.

This is not your problem to fix, Tara, she reminded herself. But it was so hard not to want to.

‘Here you go,’ said Toby, distributing the glasses. ‘I’ll have that drinks trolley, by the way, Tara. What a cracker.’

‘It’s mine,’ she said, not joking. ‘I saw it first.’

‘Ah … that looks like a pretty gin.’ Keith sighed. ‘Local?’

‘Homemade, I think. No label on it.’

Tara had taken two long sips of the very pretty gin and hearing that, nearly spluttered them out. ‘Not homemade by me. By a co-worker who’s also a crystal healer. You need to go steady with this one. Last time I had a few of these, I ended up having a very odd night indeed.’

‘Oh, really?’

‘Yes, really.’ Tara sipped her drink and let the floral, midnight-blue, juniper fragrance of the gin roll around her tongue. David’s face drifted into her mind’s eye. She smiled inwardly. Poppies and cornflowers and sunlight and long grass. Was that him, or the gin?

If only I’d met David somewhere other than work, she thought. If only I’d met him in the park, or at the gym. Her mind drifted even further, towards his rolled shirtsleeves that sat halfway down his lean forearms, to the hair that fell on to his forehead when he wrote. Where would they be now, if she didn’t have to stick to her rules about keeping her private life private?

‘Is that the doorbell?’

‘What?’

Toby was nodding towards the house; Dad was checking something on his phone. Again.