‘Is she OK, do you think?’ Caroline said, sitting down. ‘I hope this isn’t too much for her. She’s barely spoken since we arrived. And those tablets she’s on aren’t helping. She seems zoned out most of the time.’

‘She’s fine, Caroline. Try not to worry. This holiday is all about you, and she needs to know that. Let her get on with it.’

Ruth’s eyes drifted towards the open door. She stepped towards it, about to shut out the evening, when she spotted the girl in black – Lark – outside with the tall man in his fifties.

‘But I’m not hungry, Dad,’ she was saying, shoulders hunched, hands in the pockets of a knee-length black coat. Her anger was tangible. ‘I don’t even want to be here. It’s stupid. Mum’s dying, and we need to stop pretending we’re a happy family, because we’re not; we haven’t been for ages, and we never will be again. It’s pathetic.’

He placed his arm around her shoulders, pulled her close, and her eyes filled with tears. ‘We’re making new memories, sweetheart,’ he whispered. ‘I promise you’ll be glad we did. This is where your mum wants to be – here with us all. Please give her that.’ Despite the strength in his words, there was something in his tone that told Ruth he was struggling too. That he was finding this as difficult as his daughter.

‘Fine!’ Lark pushed away from him, and barged through the conservatory door. She whisked past Ruth, and thumped down in one of the dining chairs some distance from her mum and Jackson, and pulled out her phone.

The older man followed her in, threw Ruth a half-hearted smile, and closed the door behind him.

‘And the bloody signal is erratic as hell,’ Lark said, banging her phone down on the table, and glaring up at the ceiling.

Ruth looked away pretending she hadn’t heard. What did the girl expect? They were miles from anywhere. The signal was always unreliable. She looked at her watch, still three more guests to arrive before she could serve dinner.

Once the man was seated, she padded towards the table, and pulled a notepad from her cardigan pocket. But before she could speak, the conservatory door opened once more, and the woman in her early twenties with silky black hair, and smooth olive skin, pushed in the young man in a wheelchair. She sped across the parquet flooring, making a noise like a car engine, and leaving a trail of floral perfume in her wake. ‘We’re here,’ she said with a giggle. ‘Let the fun begin.’ She was American. Vivacious. Beautiful.

‘Good evening,’ Ruth said over her shoulder, her smile frozen. ‘I’m Ruth … the owner.’

‘Hey, I’m Maddie, and this is Thomas.’

Ah, the carer and the son.