For an awkward moment, Tara wasn’t sure whether she should just slide away herself, but it was too late: Peter was excusing himself, and there was Keith.

He smiled. Tara managed a half-smile back. Her pulse was still jittery, as if it couldn’t decide whether it was safe to relax or not.

‘I think that went well,’ he said easily. ‘What a great bunch of people. Very inspiring.’

‘Yes, they’re … really great.’

Keith glanced to see who was in earshot and dropped his voice. ‘I thought you didn’t want them to know I was your dad?’

‘Changed my mind. I think it’s best to be honest from the start.’ Tara tried to sound more breezy than she felt. She’d guessed he’d ask why she’d blurted out the one thing she’d asked him not to mention, and had had time to come up with a good reason while Alice and Keith had been discussing the accessible toilet provision. ‘Then everyone knows where they stand.’

Keith shrugged, and a damp strand of silver quiff detached itself from the main crop. A little of his glow had worn off after nearly two hours inside the damp hall. He seemed more like her dad now than the celebrity architect. As he pushed it back, Tara saw the familiar glint of his gold signet ring in the early evening light. Another memory slid into focus in her mind, sitting reading in his studio while he worked, and talked, and drew, and clinked ice into his crystal glass.

He spoke, and jolted her out of the memory. ‘Well, I agree …’

‘Good.’

‘… because now I’m allowed to be publicly proud of you too,’ he added.

Tara flushed. ‘I didn’t do anything more than anyone else here. They’re just being kind.’

‘There’s no need to be modest, Tara,’ he said. ‘You’re allowed to be proud.’

Tara had never found accepting praise easy, even though, ironically, she knew from therapy she was a bit of a gold-star junkie. What else was she supposed to say now? Her mind had gone blank. The others were leaving, discreetly letting them have a moment or two to talk, probably assuming they’d be catching up on normal family chit-chat.

As she was thinking how best to extricate herself without a handy child to pick up or gym class to attend, Tara realized she was walking to the door with her father. She had no idea how he’d done it – like an expert dancer steering a novice without them noticing – but even as the thought was registering in her mind they were back out in the car park, breathing the cut-grass smell of summer air, their steps mirroring each other on the gravel.

Keith had been talking about the hall – technical stuff to do with equipment they could send to dry it out ‘so we can hit the ground running’ – and broke off. ‘Everything all right?’