Come on, Iz. She had to get George back onside, for Mum’s sake as well as for her own conscience. For all her earlier misgivings, she didn’t want him simply to vanish from the Hughes family’s life, gone forever in a puff of cologne-tinged smoke. She opened her tin of pencils, ran a finger along them thoughtfully. Maybe there was some kind of artistic gesture she could make. A funny cartoon of her saying sorry? She probably wasn’t a good enough artist to do the situation justice, though. In fact she could offend him by drawing him badly.

Then another idea came to her. What was the name of that painting they’d both been giggling over the other day? The girl with the guitar, or banjo, whatever it was. Caravaggio was the artist, yes, because she’d had to stop herself from making puerile jokes about his name.

She switched on her tablet and started searching – The Lute Player, there it was. The painting showed a pensive-looking girl in a white peasant-style blouse plucking the strings of a round-bellied lute, with several other instruments arranged in front of her. Whoa – check out those eyebrows! Izzie had snorted at the time, and then they’d had a bit of a laugh about the most inappropriate tune the girl could have been playing on that lute. ‘He’s got the whole world in his hands,’ George had sung in full happy-clappy style, while Izzie argued that the girl was more of a rock fan instead. ‘She’s about to break into the chorus and go full headbanger,’ she’d joked. ‘WHOA-OH! Livin’ on a prayer!’ George had yelled, pretending to rock out, and then they’d both burst out laughing.

Izzie smiled wistfully now, remembering the conversation. What on earth are you two cackling about? Mum had asked, mystified, but you could tell she’d been pleased that they’d hit it off all the same.

Sitting up a little straighter, Izzie flexed her fingers, the idea taking shape in her mind. Okay, Lute-Playing Girl, forgive me for what I’m about to do to you, in terms of Photoshopping and ridicule, she told the painting in her head. As for you, Caravaggio, do not choose this moment to turn your spectral eye on a holiday cottage in Cornwall, mate, or you’ll be totally spinning in your grave.

Then she got to work.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Olivia’s parting words had rung in Lorna’s head all morning like the reverberations from a struck gong. There was a baby.

As the front door closed, she had staggered a little with the shock. She clutched at the radiator for a moment, unable to fully comprehend the magnitude of what she had just heard. There was a baby. A baby! She blinked a few times, her mind racing with impossible questions. Did this mean . . . ? Could it be that . . . ?