The door opens, and my sister Theodosia appears. Even though she and Anya are identical twins, I know instantly that it’s Teddy, as she likes to be known. She has a little mole over her left eyebrow and did the world a great favour last year by chopping her black hair off into a sharp bob so she and Anya can be distinguished. Also, her expression is usually much nicer than Anya’s, who has a rather jaundiced opinion on everything that it’s possible to have an opinion about.

“Charlie,” Teddy exclaims delightedly, grabbing his hand and hauling him over the doorstep. “I need you now.”

“Oh no, is it a book emergency?” I ask dryly. She and Charlie are complete bookworms and can talk books for hours. I know this because they have actually done that many times. “Has Amazon stock gone into freefall because neither of you have bought anything for at least thirty minutes?”

She shoots me a look. “Don’t be silly. No, there’s a mole in my shoe.”

I blink. “What?”

“There is a mole in my shoe,” she says again, speaking very slowly as if I’m thick.

“Why on earth has a living creature taken up residence in your footwear? Does it have a death wish?”

She shakes her head crossly. “Misha, I know you’re taking the mickey out of me.”

“How?”

“Because of your tone of voice. It’s very flippant.”

Charlie laughs and then does an about turn as she drags him down the hall towards the kitchen. I follow at a slower pace, noticing idly how fantastic his arse is in his grey trousers. I reassured myself years ago that it’s acceptable to notice these details about Charlie as long as I didn’t compound the error by fucking my best friend who means the world to me and who has a more hopeful view of marriage than Liam Hemsworth.

I walk into the kitchen, and, as ever, it’s light and warm. The cupboards are a bit scruffy and the tiles need replacing, but it’s cosy and the big scuffed table brings back so many memories of family meals and doing homework on its worn surface.

My mum turns from the cooker where she’s stirring a big pot. I inhale greedily. The thick and spicy soup is my favourite, and my dad taught her how to make it.

“That smells good,” I say, and she grins and angles her face so I can kiss her. I press my lips to the softness of her cheek, inhaling the scent of Miss Dior perfume and feeling her dark hair brush against my face.

“It should taste good,” she murmurs. “I’ve had a great deal of practice cooking it.”

“Where’s the rogue mole?” I ask.