Amelia hesitated and Maggie couldn’t help remembering with a pang how she had asked for a sibling repeatedly as a small child, as if she thought Maggie might be able to whip one out of a cupboard for her. Ta-dah! And now she had not one, but two. Gifts from Will that Maggie hadn’t been able to provide.

‘Thistle’s a boy, Rain’s a girl,’ Amelia said. ‘Cool names, aren’t they?’

Maggie had almost sprayed a mouthful of wine across the floor. ‘Thistle and Rain? Aren’t those Farrow and Ball paint colours?’ she scoffed. ‘Heavens, how did they come up with those – stare out the window and pick the first dreary thing they saw? Ah, Pondweed, that’ll do. Or how about Drizzle? Perfect!’

Amelia had shot her a disapproving look and Maggie felt bad for sneering. It was hardly the poor children’s fault they’d been given such daft names – and these were Amelia’s half-brother and half-sister, more to the point. Any more criticism and she knew which side Amelia would pick.

Come on, though, she thought now, remembering the conversation. Thistle was bad enough, but Rain was just mean. Who liked rain? She certainly didn’t.

The journey to Newton Abbot took about two hours, but even when they had parked and were walking up towards the house, the situation still didn’t feel quite real. Maggie found herself assaulted by a punch of memories that she hadn’t even known were there, as she approached the familiar front door; all of a sudden she was twenty-eight again, with a swingy ponytail and jeans. She was hand-in-hand with Will, holding a bunch of flowers for Philippa, their overnight bags at their feet as they rang the bell.

Then she blinked and was all grown-up again, with a sprinkling of grey hairs on her head and crow’s feet around her eyes, and it was her teenage daughter who held the overnight bag now. The jeans Maggie had once lived in had become fawn-coloured chinos, teamed with a cap-sleeve white blouse with pretty embroidering; the unofficial uniform of every Middle-Aged Fart this summer, she realized too late. An army of invisible, nothing-to-see-here women doing all the grunt work of their families. Maybe she should have put more effort into her outfit today, like Amelia had, she thought, glancing down at her mum-clothes. Well, everyone had to grow up eventually, she told herself. Maybe even Will.

Talk of the devil, here he was answering the door and – oh goodness, yes, how her traitorous heart twisted at the sight of him, still as handsome as ever, with those exquisite cheekbones and the sweep of glossy dark hair that Amelia had inherited. Wearing scruffy jeans and a blue T-shirt with some band logo emblazoned across it, he apparently hadn’t received the memo about the uniform of middle age. Which only left her feeling frumpier than ever.