If only you knew. ‘Of course. But you more than make up for it, Susie. The kids are lucky.’

She preens, batting away the compliment. ‘Goodness, I just do what any grandmother would do.’ A pause. ‘Joanna, you look a bit wan tonight. Are you OK?’

‘I’m fine. It’s just this whole Lily Murphy story … it’s unsettling.’

‘I’d say try to forget about it if you can. I push it out of my head any time it pops in – it’s just too sad. And especially when she was their only child.’ She pauses again. ‘That must have made it extra hard for you too, Joanna, when you lost your parents. Being an only child.’

I nod into my gin, unable to speak. I wasn’t always an only child. Not until I killed my sister.

6

June 2018

‘NOW, WHO WANTS AN Aperol Spritz?’ I’m brandishing a jug of orange-coloured fizz and wearing my brightest hostess smile. This is the well-practised version of Joanna my friends and family are used to. Guilt clings to me permanently, like stale smoke in my hair, but I’m very good at disguising it. From the patio doors, I take stock. The sun has already dipped below the tall trees at the back of the garden, but strings of solar lights are coming to life and the buzz of noise has risen. Someone – Mark or one of the kids presumably – has put music on. It looks normal and lovely and welcoming and warm. How a housewarming should look. And I will act the part, because that is what I do.

Fran from next door, dressed in a Hawaiian shirt belted over a long green skirt, eyes up the jug.

‘What on earth is that?’ she asks, holding out her empty wine glass.

‘You’ll love it.’ I step closer to pour, taking in the surfboard-and-palm-tree print on her shirt, and the brown leather belt with the rather incongruous rhinestone buckle.

‘Go on, so. At least I don’t have far to get home. I can’t remember when I last had drinks with the neighbours.’

‘Oh, really? What about the people who lived here before us?’

‘It’s been rented mostly over the years – expensive corporate rentals, people staying for a few months before finding somewhere more permanent. Since the Murphys lived here, I never really got to know anyone.’

‘When did they sell up?’

‘Not they – Robbie dropped dead of a heart attack just before Christmas of ’85. The more dramatic neighbours said he died of a broken heart, once he accepted Lily was gone.’ Fran shakes her head, her drop-pearl earrings catching the evening sunlight. ‘Mary never accepted it though. As far as I remember from my mother, she sold up because she couldn’t afford the house after Robbie died, but she still came back, searching and hoping, even though the whole world knew the poor child had drowned.’

‘Oh my God, that’s awful. What a sad history this place has had.’