Amelia folded her arms across her chest. ‘Yeah. I am,’ she said. ‘Look, it’s my holiday too, Mum. And I don’t want to go and look at boring old granite, or whatever it is, this time. I’m not into that, okay? Anyway, I already said I’d go, so—’

‘Well, I’m saying no,’ Maggie said again, hardening; she’d be every bit as tough as granite herself in a minute. ‘You don’t know anything about this boy, or his family. Plus you haven’t been on a bike for ages, let alone going off cycling along major roads. Especially in that skirt! You don’t even have your helmet.’

‘I can borrow one. And they’ll hardly be major roads, out here in the sticks,’ Amelia said scathingly. She glanced down at her outfit and shrugged. ‘And I can put on some shorts – big deal.’

There was a pain in Maggie’s chest as if she’d swallowed something too hot. This was not Amelia speaking to her, she reminded herself, this was Tara Webster’s voice. Cool, streetwise Tara of the thick mascara and side-eye glances. The girl who thought nothing of bringing cherry brandy to Amelia’s birthday sleepover, and whose sole hobby appeared to be pouting suggestively into a camera. ‘But we’ve already got plans,’ she said, trying to claw back some control. ‘Come on, Amelia. The holidays are about us, me and you, spending a bit of time together.’

As soon as the words were out, she knew they were a mistake. ‘What if I don’t want to spend time with you?’ Amelia retaliated. ‘What if I don’t want to look at a load of old rocks? I mean, who does?’

It was like being under attack: every exchange a new blow, a new wound. Who does? Well, Maggie did for one, as they both knew. And Amelia too had loved investigating geological sites not so long ago, before she had decided they were too uncool for the likes of her and Tara. ‘But—’

‘Mum, you don’t get it. I’m telling, not asking. I’m going out with Jack, so—’

She was already making her way towards the door and Maggie leapt up and followed her into the small hallway. ‘No, you are not, young lady,’ she said, grabbing Amelia by the wrist. There came a time when you had to put your foot down as a parent, and this was it. High noon. ‘You haven’t even had any breakfast.’

‘Get off me,’ shrieked Amelia, pushing her off. ‘God, Mum! If I’ve got bruises because of you, I’m going to . . .’