I turned the corner onto my road, just as Henry replied, ‘I’m already here.’

The flood of relief was almost enough to dispel the freezing-fog dread when I saw him standing beside his car, fifty metres down the road and right outside the little path that led to my front door.

Never in a zillion years would I have thought I could be so happy to see Henry Fairfax.

I ran right up to him, skidding to an awkward stop when I got there and wasn’t quite sure what to do.

Henry took one look at my face, took a step closer and pulled me into a hug.

‘It’s all my fault,’ I mumbled into his ugly brown coat. ‘I’ve ruined everything. Nana Joy will hate me.’

‘She’s going to be upset,’ Henry admitted, as reluctant to offer an empty platitude as always. ‘But you’re the Armstrongs. You’ll get through it.’

Five minutes later I was once again in Henry’s passenger seat. Weaving through the traffic at a steady one mile below the speed limit, I was finally able to think.

‘There’s no way we can hide this from her if it gets published. It’s not fair to have it out there and her not know.’

Henry waited to change lanes before answering. ‘At least your dad already knows, and Tony’s dead so no one can bother him. It’s a mildly interesting story if you know who Joy is, but there’s no big scandal here.’

‘No, but Nana’s not rational when it comes to journalists. For which we can probably thank the delightful Tony. She’ll be distraught that they’ve printed something she’s kept secret for nearly sixty years. And of all the times for it to happen…’ I shook my head. ‘How did they find out?’

‘Who did you speak to about it?’

‘Her assistant, Zelia. Ursula Brambleton, who she lived with when she was pregnant, and then Tony’s wife, but we never mentioned anything about a baby to her.’ I pressed a hand against my forehead at another unpleasant realisation. ‘I’m going to have to tell Pat O’Dowd that her husband had a love child.’

‘If she doesn’t already know, was lying the whole time, and decided to spill the story before you did.’

I thought about that. ‘I can’t see it. Why invite us in, let alone give us the photo, if she was lying? I don’t think it’s Zelia, either. She loves Nana Joy and they still keep in touch.’

‘So Ursula Brambleton?’ Henry concluded.

‘Only one way to find out.’

Before I could decide whether or not it was a good idea, I’d called her, hiding my number.

‘Hello?’

‘Ursula, I’m Henrietta Fairfax, journalist with the Mirror. I hear you have an explosive story about Joy Papplewick.’

A brief silence.

‘I might do.’

‘Care to share?’