The sun was coming up, dismissing the quiet pre-dawn hour. It rose over the hills as they crossed the Tsing Ma Bridge and came down past West Kowloon. Deborah looped back after the tunnel and then made a succession of quick turns that took them uphill to Caine Road. The flat was in Mid-Levels, in a squarish fifties building. An old banyan tree grew near the stone retaining wall by the road, determinedly hanging on, a stalwart of old Hong Kong. (It would do so until years later when, after heavy rains, it finally crashed down on a car, and the driver, a woman, had to be cut out by an emergency crew.)

Inside the poky, single-level flat Phoebe couldn’t miss the newly polished parquetry floor, which for as long as she could remember had been scuffed and dull. She had a sudden recollection of playing with a stethoscope on the floor and her father crouching next to her, hands on knees, affectionate, playful. ‘Look at you, our little doctor. Is that what you’re going to be?’ She blinked away the memory.

‘You’re in your sister’s room,’ said her mother in a stage whisper, opening the door to the smaller bedroom, not much bigger than a cupboard.

‘Why? Who’s in my room?’

‘Shhh, he works late.’

‘Who does?’

‘Jimmy.’

‘Jimmy?’

‘I thought you knew.’

‘I thought he was only staying till he found somewhere. Has he been here all this time?’ Deborah hadn’t said anything on the phone.

Phoebe put her case in her sister’s old room and came out to confront her mother in the kitchen. It took two cups of tea to get some straight answers. Her ex had been living in the flat since his arrival in Hong Kong. With both her daughters having flown the coop, Deborah liked the feeling of having someone else around.

Phoebe rubbed her face, exhausted, and retreated for a nap. When she woke, Jimmy had gone out. He was out for the whole day. There were signs of his presence: a toothbrush in the bathroom, blueberries in the fridge (that was her mum going all out), and on the bench a fluffy loaf of Baker’s Choice from the ParknShop. Deborah had always made them eat multigrain, for fibre, as if her otherwise healthy daughters were at risk of constipation.

‘I thought you knew, sweetie,’ her mother said again, feigning innocence as only she knew how. As if to complete her performance, she sneaked a slice of the white bread, ignoring her virtuous dark rye. When Phoebe looked surprised, she said, ‘Might as well live a little.’