And if it wasn’t… then strength was definitely needed to cope with it.

All it took for Ava to lie in bed groaning was a bit of wine and Armagnac, and the news that Mum was getting married again and was expecting. How on earth would she cope with stuff coming in, if not from the other side, then at the very least from outside herself – little moments of knowledge from the blue?

I left Ava her croissant to have later, and put on my new swimming-costume and sundress and the new straw sun-hat I’d had to choose really quickly because Ava had spent so long trying on swimming costumes, and tucked my beach towel and other things I might need in the raffia basket Mum had bought me on the very last day before we were due to fly out here.

Then Mum came in, all keen to talk to Ava – probably wanting to make sure that she was going to be all right with her getting married and having a baby and all that. Mum tended to think that talking could sort out that kind of thing. She sent me off to go down with Mark to the beach, and I found myself alone with my future stepdad for the first time since I’d invited him into our flat, the day he’d brought round the books.

We made our way towards the hotel’s revolving doors together and out onto the sunlit road. Maybe he wasn’t a morning person; he didn’t seem particularly cheerful about having the chance to get to know me better. I supposed I was going to find out that kind of thing about him now that he was going to be a proper part of our lives, rather than a man with a fancy car who sometimes turned up to give us presents, or take us out for expensive treats.

As long as I made it perfectly clear to Dad that he’d always come first, surely it wouldn’t be so very terrible to let this other person grow fond of me… would it?

Dad was Dad, but he was on and off and you never knew when he’d be back next. Mark at least seemed reliable, and that wasn’t to be sniffed at. Going by the evidence, you had to wonder how much Dad had ever really wanted us. I let myself think this, though I knew I shouldn’t, any more than you should pick at a scab to see what’s underneath.

Even though it was still early, the beach was already crowded with bronzed sunbathers in brightly coloured swimwear and their happy, uncomplaining children. I suspected very few of them were English – or if any of them were English, they’d done a very good job of adapting. Mark and I were both paler than everybody else, but I felt I stuck out more than he did.

He had on a polo shirt and linen trousers and espadrilles and was carrying a canvas holdall with his beach stuff in it, and there was something quite Continental about him, what with the breathable fabrics and the casual air of sophistication and choosiness. There was nothing at all Continental about me, but maybe that was something to do with never having been overseas before. In fact, I’d never even left the south-east; the furthest I’d been was the beach at Brighton.