‘It’s crap,’ she said, looking towards Lark sitting cross-legged on the grass brushing a tear from her pale cheek. None of them were doing a good job of hiding their desperation. They needed to sort themselves out.

Lark looked so different to the last time Amelia saw her. Gone were the pale-blue dungarees, the high ponytail, her love of Justin Bieber. Today, she wore a flowing black dress, and black lace-up ankle boots. She was growing up fast, looked older than her seventeen years, her long blonde hair flowing down her back, her freckled cheeks masked by pale foundation, her lips painted red.

‘She’s refusing to go to university next year,’ her dad said, seeming to notice where Amelia’s eyes had landed.

‘Lark?’

He nodded. ‘She’s been so moody lately. I can’t get to the bottom of it.’

‘Mum’s dying,’ Amelia whispered. ‘She isn’t coping.’

Lark looked up, and caught Amelia’s eye across the expanse of grass. Her eyeliner had smudged beneath her eyes, and Amelia felt a pang of guilt that she rarely saw her anymore. ‘I’m worried about her,’ she said, turning back to her dad.

He nodded. ‘Me too.’

The rest of the family reached reception, and Lark got to her feet and shuffled towards them, head down.

‘We should probably go over,’ Amelia said. ‘Try to look happy.’

‘Yes, of course – chin up and all that.’

They rose and linked arms. ‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ Amelia whispered.

As they approached, Jackson – who was only six years older than Amelia at thirty-six – had taken charge, and was in full voice.

‘It looks a bit small in there,’ he said, peering through the bay window into reception, one hand over his eyes to block out the sun. ‘I’ll go in and get the keys, shall I?’ He pushed his sandy-blond hair from his face with an exaggerated flick. ‘Then we can unpack,’ he went on. ‘Have a rest and freshen up before dinner. How does that sound?’

‘Good to see you taking charge,’ Amelia said with a roll of her eyes. This man walked in on my family and changed everything. She bit down on her lip. What right did she have to say anything? Her fleeting visits to the apartment Mum shared with him in Tweedmouth, brandishing huge bunches of flowers that only went some way towards easing her guilt, were hardly the act of a supportive daughter. She’d been a coward hiding in London, hoping a miracle would happen and she would never have to face the loss of her mother.