Once we’re free of our coats the rest of us sit down. The smell of dinner cooking tingles my taste buds, and I realise I’m hungry. But as I sit, surrounded by empty chairs where Mum, Lark, and Jackson sat one short year ago, a painful lump rises in my throat, and I lose my appetite.

Ruth approaches with her notebook and pen. ‘Can I get anyone a wee drink?’ she says. ‘Tap water is included; anything else is extra.’

‘A large white wine, please,’ I say as a sense of déjà vu settles heavily on my shoulders.

Once we’ve received our drinks, and Ruth has vanished to the back of the house, the silence between the four of us is awkward and painful, and I’m almost relieved when the door springs opens. Until I see who it is.

‘Rosamund,’ I whisper. As elegant as ever, she’s wearing the same orange coat she wore a year ago, topped off with a flamboyant fur hat and gloves. I feel a pang of envy when I notice she’s pregnant.

Her eyes meet with Dad’s. And without speaking she takes a seat.

I look over at Dad for an explanation, but he looks as bewildered as I feel, and is blinking rapidly. My body fizzes with adrenalin. Not once did she visit Mum after Lark went missing. Not once did she call to see how Mum was. She never even came to her funeral.

I desperately want to know what she’s doing here. It can’t be a coincidence, surely. I open my mouth, about to fire questions at her, tell her she was nothing more than a fake friend to Mum, but Maddie beats me to it.

‘Hey, Rosamund, how are you?’ she says, fiddling with the stem of her wine glass.

‘I should be asking you that question,’ Rosamund says, her tone soft and caring. She is stroking her stomach as though gaining comfort from her unborn child. I know that feeling. ‘You must have had a dreadful year,’ she goes on. ‘I’m so sorry I haven’t been in touch.’

‘It’s been awful,’ Maddie says. ‘But we’re coming to terms with it all.’

‘Are we?’ I bristle. Maddie is not part of our family. How could she possibly know how we feel? Whether we are coming to terms with things? Which I’m not.

‘When … when did you lose Caroline?’ Rosamund’s voice cracks, her watery eyes glancing at the empty chair where Mum sat a year ago.

‘Five months ago,’ Dad says.

‘I’m so sorry, Robert.’ She leans across the table, and places her gloved hand on his. He snatches his hand away as though burned, leaving hers redundant on the table.

‘It’s not like we didn’t know,’ he says.