Siobhan shrugs defensively. ‘If that’s what it takes, right? Until then, how’s about a big old-fashioned “Thank you” for agreeing to do all your work while you sun yourself on Kingsman-recommended sun-loungers?’

Yes, there is a definite edge to her.

‘Thank you, Siobhan. I’ll let Maisie know I only managed to get away because you’re a lovely, kind person.’

‘And sexy and talented.’

‘And because you always smell amazing.’

‘Fingernails?’

‘Very witchy.’

‘I want you to credit my fingernails for your whole mini-break.’

‘Will do.’

And with that, Becky hurries out of the office, towards the chauffeur-driven car waiting outside the building, that Matthew has laid on to drive her and her family out of the city in style and comfort.

Chapter 21

Becky leans against reception waiting for their paperwork to be completed and their key cards to be issued, fingers pinched round the bottom of a champagne glass, absorbing the low light and neutrals, the peaceful string music, the interior water feature of tiny rocks and bonsai. She breathes it all in like clean mountain air, allowing herself to feel hope that a break, a change in place and pace, could really, genuinely, be what she needs. Her own childhood family holidays in Rye and Camber Sands weren’t exactly sunshine, Snakes and Ladders and sea-salted skin – there were arguments and feuds and a lot of being alone. She can do better, can’t she? Surely she can.

She’s already made a start by building a dam against the fretful toxic sludge that seeps through Twitter, Instagram, the Daily Mail, the Guardian, YouTube and the blogs. She’s closed down every unhelpful window and app on her phone, determining that she will leave the speculation about Amber well alone and that she will leave Scott well alone to get on with his preening and preparation, while she spends proper time with her family.

And yet, she has already spent the journey to Camber Sands fretting over Maisie. Her classmates have been making digs about the fact that Becky was in the papers. Maisie tells Becky that she batted them away ‘like annoying flies’, but what remains at the end of the conversation and stays with Becky for some time after is a sense of her daughter collecting battle scars. She saw her daughter’s sad eyes in the rear view mirror and Becky blamed herself for it.

But now Maisie and Adam seem to be happily fussing over a luggage label, discussing when they should set their alarms for pancakes and eggs the next morning, and maybe there is hope after all. Let it be simple. Let it be fun. Let nobody ask her about Amber ever again.

The receptionist, dressed like a health spa specialist, in a cream tabard, looks up and smiles at Becky. ‘Breakfast will be served from eight and I’ll need your credit card for any incidentals.’