This wasn’t coming out right. She sank her forehead on to her free hand. There was no way she’d allow one of her clients to fudge an important communication like this. Two or three times a day she gently stopped a client from talking themselves out of a decision, and helped them grasp the scary flaming torch of their truths, instead of dropping it out of fear. But now, she couldn’t let her own fears out, in case … in case what? Despite everything, she didn’t want her dad to see how much this meant to her, and how easily he could hurt her again.

This is about me, she wanted to yell. This is about not letting me down.

Keith’s voice broke the silence, familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. ‘Do they know I’m your father?’

‘I haven’t said as much. Although I guess some might put two and two together.’

‘It sounds as if you don’t want them to know.’

‘I’m not sure I do.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Lots of reasons,’ she said shortly.

‘I promise you this,’ said Keith. ‘By the time we’ve finished on Troutbridge village hall, you’ll want everyone to know. How’s that?’

He’s missed the point, she thought, with a childlike wrench of disappointment. He’s completely missed the point.

Half an hour later, Tara was cruising slowly down another of Longhampton’s premier residential streets, looking for a spot to hide her Mini between the Range Rovers and Volvos, bargaining with the universe.

If she could find a space, and fit into it first time, she could text Phil.

It had been three weeks and two days now since they’d last spoken; the longest silence so far, and Tara’s attitude had slipped from nonchalance to irritation and was now sliding into concern.

She slid her car into a gap in two elegant movements – Tara liked parallel parking, she was good at it – and hated herself for the way her heart bounced as she dug through the mess of paper hankies and pens and receipts in her handbag to find her phone.