She glanced up and down, face scrunched in dismay. ‘I think we can make the sacrifice.’

‘Is she here?’ Dad’s voice drifted through from the hallway, his head appearing a second later. ‘Sweet-Bea!’ His eyes lit up, mouth open as if I’d returned from a polar expedition unannounced, not spoken to him on the phone mere minutes earlier. ‘Come in, come and sit down, let me take your coat. It’s so wonderful to have you here. You getting the week off work is the best Christmas present we could have hoped for.’

He hurried across the room and flung his arms around me, managing to lift me about a millimetre off the floor before his back made a disturbing crack and he quickly plonked me down again.

Still handsome at fifty-eight, at six foot he stood an inch taller than me and Mum, though he was brawny where Mum’s love of sport kept her lithe (and I was somewhere in between). In contrast to Mum’s sudden interest in my looks, neither of my parents usually cared much for outward appearances. Dad’s silver hair had never found a comb it could agree with, and Mum’s ash layers framed a face permanently devoid of any beauty products beyond a quick smear of moisturiser. Workdays and weekends Mum wore athletics gear, stretching to a smart pair of trousers and shirt for a special occasion. Dad lived in jeans, moth-eaten jumpers, and the worst of the fashion students’ projects.

Today he wore a suit. His tie matched Mum’s claret cocktail dress.

What on earth was going on?

‘Come on, let’s get you seated.’

‘Jonty!’ Mum hissed, grabbing the arm that had started to propel me towards the dining room. ‘She can’t go in looking like that!’

Dad stopped, as if bewildered. I knew how he felt.

‘What are you talking about? She looks captivating.’ Dad reached up to brush another smattering of snow from my hair.

‘She looks like she rolled down the drive!’

‘Um, excuse me, but I am standing right here. A grown adult. Who can decide for herself how she wants to look. I don’t know what’s got into you both, but I can go in looking however I want, and I will!’

With a good shake of my sopping-wet hair, ignoring how the damp sheen of melted snowflakes was smearing my day-old make-up, I thrust my coat at Dad, kicked off my soggy boots, and marched to the dining room.

I say marched. I’d forgotten how slippery the tiles can be, especially in tights. It was more of a skid than a march, but I felt as though I’d made my point.

‘Auntie Bea!’ A chorus went up from my nieces and nephew, producing a warm glow that I knew was completely undeserved considering how long it had been since I’d seen them.