David’s familiarity niggled at Tara. Had he been in her year at university? One of those never-left-his-room types, seen only at the occasional party, blinking in the light? Was he one of Justin’s insufferable village pub mates? Tara studied David’s angular face, probing her memory, then jumped when he unexpectedly turned in her direction and – again – caught her looking.

God. He was going to think she had a crush on him. Tara smiled, distantly, as if she’d been thinking, not looking at him at all, then pretended to focus intently on Kasia’s mellifluous nonsense talk.

‘… imagine you’re surrounded by a calm pink light, the colour of care, and then project that light away from you until it’s like a beautiful bubble of protection …’

Pink light, lovely. Tara settled back and thought about the calm pink places she could go on holiday. Was it too late for her to do her Grand Tour at last? She’d planned to travel round Europe with her housemates after graduation; Tara’s Rough Guides were fluttery with sticky notes, local delicacies highlighted in yellow, her modest budget carefully spreadsheeted. She’d experienced such exhilaration planning it, balancing on the edge of a different life, the smallness of her childhood behind her, the future full of everything. Toby, of course, was already out there exploring the extremes, sending her updates from the big wide world of work and adventure. Unlike her, he didn’t care whether Mum thought he was selfish. By the time Toby left for university, he and Mum were barely talking. Which, Tara supposed, was the real definition of being like Dad.

‘… crucial to acknowledge when we need help, and to learn that reaching out to colleagues for advice and support isn’t a sign of weakness, it’s a sign of strength …’

A cloud moved across the sun and the warmth dipped away. In the end, Tara hadn’t sipped her Aperol spritzes in Rome or hot chocolate in Prague. She had drunk a lot of instant coffee in Longhampton hospital, when her mum slipped over outside Boots the week before the Eurostar departed, with Kate, Nadia and Meg aboard. Too easy to blame the temporary job she’d taken in the local Citizens Advice while Mum’s shattered vertebrae healed, instead of the legal-practice course she had planned that would have converted her into a fully functioning solicitor. Toby hadn’t stopped: he’d carried on freelancing, six months here, six months there. Each job a step higher, further into his future. Whereas Tara had stayed put, fixing problems and finding she enjoyed it. Eventually she’d taken her counselling diplomas, got her psychotherapy qualifications. And here she was.

She stared out of the window, right into the old CAB office where she’d helped lonely people dispute traffic fines while her mates were deliriously consuming God knew what in Amsterdam.