‘OK.’ He didn’t sit down but leaned against the sink, arms folded. I cast a last look at him: pyjama bottoms, strong forearms, too-long dark hair, ice-blue eyes. I might never hold him again after this.

I took a swallow of tea, so hot it burned my mouth.

‘My name’s Casey, not Rachel – or at least, it was. Casey Adams. And when I was nineteen I was convicted of murder.’

Casey

Casey

SEPTEMBER 2000

The day after the disastrous dinner with Ruth, I overslept, waking in a panic bolt upright. It was eight already. Eight! I hadn’t slept past six in the entire time I was here. Why hadn’t Carson woken me? When I went to his cot, he was asleep, his fists balled up by his face. A wave of tenderness went over me. He was so sweet when he wasn’t howling. I gently shook him.

‘Carson? Do you need a change?’

He didn’t stir – that was weird.

Downstairs, I found David at the table, drinking coffee, bleary-eyed. I had dressed more conservatively today, in jeans and a gypsy-style top. Ruth’s words had got to me, despite myself.

‘Where is everyone?’ I said.

‘Abby took Madison to school. And Ruth left earlier.’

‘She left?’ I was supposed to drive her to the airport that afternoon, which I had been dreading.

‘She got an earlier flight. Called a cab.’ He shrugged and I didn’t press further. I imagined they had parted on bad terms. He looked at me then. ‘So. Are you coming to work with me?’

Part of me had assumed this was just a drunken late-night promise, not meant. ‘Can I?’

‘If you want.’ This was it – my big break. My chance to actually see something of the industry that fuelled this town.

‘Carson’s asleep still. He doesn’t normally sleep this long.’

David looked at his watch. ‘My PA can watch him while I show you about. Get him ready and we’ll go soon.’

I ran upstairs, taking them two at a time. Throwing caution to the wind, I called Jenna from my mobile. I had no idea how much it would cost, and got the country code wrong a few times. It was four o’clock at home.

Jenna picked up. ‘Yeah?’ I could hear from the woody slide of her voice she was already drinking.

‘Mum, it’s me.’

‘Why are you ringing at this time? And don’t call me Mum, please, it’s so ageing.’

‘Sorry. I was just – it’s happening. I can go to the office with him, he says. The production company.’

‘Right!’ Suddenly she was alert. ‘What are you wearing?’

‘Jeans and a top. It’s very casual here.’

‘Huh. I always wear a dress and full make-up to every audition, plus eyelashes and my hair.’ Her extensions, she meant. She always called it ‘putting my hair on’.

‘It’s not like that here, Mum. Sorry, Jenna.’