On the one hand, she really wanted the old Toby’s perceptive, big-brother (even if just by ten minutes) take on things; on the other, she wasn’t up for another hurtful radio silence, even if he was clearly very busy driving an electric car through scenic areas of Vancouver Island, going by his Instagram Stories this week.

Other than an ambiguous thumbs up in response to the party photo she’d sent, Toby hadn’t offered her any support about this weird reappearance of their father. Tara assumed it was because he wanted nothing to do with Dad either, but, unlike her, he was self-assured enough to state his boundaries. She’d poured out her heart in a couple of long WhatsApp messages about the miserable struggle keeping her awake most nights – loyalty to Mum versus her grown-up curiosity and professional investment in the power of change – but she’d deleted them before she’d sent them. Maybe Emily had been right: sometimes the act of writing to someone was enough.

At least with this new possibility of a salaried job, the issue of the house was on hold for the time being.

Tara’s thumb hovered over the message on the screen. Dad’s here. What should I do? But before she could do anything, a brand-new Mercedes swept into the car park with a crunch of gravel and reversed into a space right outside the front door.

Tara’s head bounced up. She’d never seen the car before, but the plates were personalized: KPH 58. Dad was here. Instantly, she felt nauseous, and was annoyed with her body for not managing to be cooler.

She watched in her rear-view mirror as her dad – or rather, this older man, this version of her father – jumped out of the Mercedes, followed by an assistant in his twenties, carrying a leather satchel and a heavy laptop bag. They were both wearing boots, ready for the site inspection, but Keith (he was definitely in Keith mode, that much was clear) looked every inch the consultant, with more than a hint of the old glamour: horn-rimmed Ray-Bans, a linen jacket over creaseless chinos, the afternoon sun catching the healthy gleam of his thick silver hair.

Tara’s stomach turned over slowly as the ghosts of long-ago summer Dads gathered in the back of her mind. He’d never worn shorts, always chinos; never flip-flops, always red deck shoes. He looked smarter now than when she’d seen him in the garden; he was here to impress the committee, not just her. It was a professional performance and she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to be part of it, not with everyone watching. Maybe it was a mistake to be here at all. It was only the second time she’d seen her father in twelve years. Had he seen her? Should she slip away? Could she?