Besides that, she had no idea how long this whole surreal limbo was going to last. In a little less than three weeks, would Abby stroll back into her flat and take up her life as if she had been on an extended holiday? Laurel didn’t know, because she didn’t know Abby.

From sleeping in the same bed and plaiting each other’s hair—well, Abby plaiting hers, at least—they’d become these strangers who could barely manage to keep the chitchat going for half an hour, and who both felt a treacherous relief when they said goodbye.

It saddened Laurel too much to think about it, and so she generally didn’t...which meant she’d stopped trying with Abby a while ago, and the visits and phone calls, already sporadic, had become more and more infrequent as well as strained.

Laurel pulled into the underground car park of the high-end luxury building where her sister had a glamorous, if rather sterile, flat in South London. Laurel hated its bland, empty rooms, the cream leather furniture all looking like it shouldn’t ever be touched never mind sat on, the highlights of chrome and glass so stark and unfriendly.

She didn’t know how her sister had managed to raise a child in that place, although there was very little evidence that she actually had. No toys, no photos, no crayoned pictures on the fridge, although admittedly Zac was fourteen and not five, so perhaps the days of homemade drawings were long gone. Judging by her nephew’s current behaviour, they most certainly were.

Still, it was a far cry from Laurel’s cosy terraced cottage back in York, crammed with junk she liked to think of as antiques, the overstuffed sofa covered with colourful knitted throws, the walls lined with paintings she picked up in charity shops and car boot sales.

With a pang, Laurel pushed away thoughts of the home she missed with a fierce ache. She’d asked Helen to water her plants and take care of her cat. Helen had been most obliging, and sent Laurel away with assurances that everything would be looked after, and she knew it would be. She just wanted to be the one to look after it.

She wanted to be home, not in this awful, elegant flat with a fourteen-year-old boy who acted as if he either hated or couldn’t care less about her, and who, Laurel thought now, was capable of setting a room on fire. No joke.

To spend Christmas, her absolutely favourite time of year, in such a place felt awful, impossible. She didn’t want to do it. She couldn’t.

“Zac, this can’t go on.” She hadn’t realised the words were out of her mouth until she said them, standing in her sister’s sleek galley kitchen while Zac walked away from her towards her bedroom, eyes glued to his iPhone’s screen. He kept walking as if she hadn’t spoken. “Zac.”

Still nothing. After ten days of this kind of behaviour, Laurel was used to it, but for once she had no more patience or understanding to draw on, and she strode forward, clamping one hand on his shoulder. “Zac, listen to me.”