Despite what she’d said to Diane, in the cold light of day Tara wasn’t so sure she’d done the right thing. She’d been naive, stupid even, for not seeing the publicity angle first. Diane’s clear-eyed reaction flipped everything – and kept flipping it, over and over. One moment she felt bitter, furious that Dad wasn’t interested in her at all, just what profile opportunities she could offer; the next moment loneliness crashed over her, overwhelming her with shame that she’d been taken in so easily, even now. Worst of all, she couldn’t pinpoint exactly how she felt. Did she care? Was she angry, hurt, suspicious, afraid? Tara knew the questions she’d ask a client to help them explore their true feelings, hooking the slippery fish of truth from the confusing shoal of denial and delusion, teasing it out so painlessly they barely noticed. But it turned out that skill was like tickling: it didn’t work when you tried to do it on yourself.

The filter machine dripped and the smell of coffee spread through the kitchen. Tara leaned on the kitchen counter and stared into the garden, where Ruth’s favourite rose bush had recently erupted into bloom. The white roses gleamed like wedding dress satin in the pale sunshine.

Mum, thought Tara, remembering Ruth meticulously selecting which flowers to clip: two steps back from the bush, head tilted, secateurs raised, the flowers removed with a surgical snap. Every other day Ruth stuffed the silver bowl in the hallway with luxuriant sherbet-scented tea roses, a blowsy delight in Keith’s clean modern house. Toby had Ruth’s knack of making flowers sit right, the same way he could hang the right picture in the perfect spot, or place the unexpected splash of colour in a room. Tara didn’t. As the child of two artists, she felt cheated on the creative front. Toby was a quick learner: he’d absorbed Ruth’s little tricks before he bailed out at eighteen, while all Tara had absorbed was an appreciation of high thread counts and Ruth’s recipe for whipped feta dip – which Tara suspected was Diane’s anyway.

I should have asked her to show me what to do with the roses while I had the chance, she thought, aching with regret. It was the small losses that punched way beyond their size. Papercuts on her heart.

The bush rustled, throwing a shower of petals up into the air and on to the gravel, and a frightened blackbird shot out, closely followed by a determined Sybil.

Tara tried not to see that as a sign. She poured her coffee, added three sugars, and picked up her phone. She needed to get this out of the way before she could think about it too much.

‘Tara!’ Keith picked up on the second ring and sounded wide awake. ‘How are you?’