Billie sat staring at the sulking countryside through the porthole she had wiped in the condensation-misted window. Its wintry garb was a depressing palette of muddy browns and greys, occasionally relieved by a splatter of hawthorn berries or rosehips. It was too mild for a frost to camouflage the dreary trees and hedges with a dusting of sparkling white and stiffen the mushy furrows in the fields into crisp, earthen vertebrae. The train had been held at a red light just outside Hassocks for ten minutes. ‘Hassocks’ always sounded to Billie as though it should be in a limerick, but she could only ever think of ‘cassocks’ to rhyme with it. According to the driver, they should be on the way ‘very soon’. His qualifying statement of ‘So I’m told’ didn’t inspire optimism, but then there was a quiet judder and hiss and the train pulled slowly forward. A tangible if barely audible expression of relief rippled around the other passengers in the carriage. Billie checked her watch. She wondered if she should text Imelda and warn her that she was running a little late. Imelda was meeting her at the station and Billie would be staying with her while she was in Brighton. Billie worried now if that was wise. After all, she had only met her once. But what if Imelda was her mother? Surely the closer Billie got to her, the more likely she was to find out. Surely if she spent enough time with her, she would just know. Some visceral mother–daughter connection would be revealed like a message in invisible ink when the notepaper it is written on is warmed beneath a light bulb or skimmed with a hot iron. She had debated with herself whether to ask Imelda outright, but had decided against it. To pose the question was tantamount to accusing Imelda of lying, or at least of deliberate deception, and Billie was reluctant to risk damaging their fledgling friendship for the sake of impatience.

As the train pulled into Brighton, passengers were reminded that this was their final destination and that they should take all their belongings with them. Billie thought that the rail company should find a way of rephrasing it. Final destination sounded so ominous, like the eponymous American horror film. She tipped her bowler slightly further back on her head so that she could see better what she was doing, retrieved her small suitcase from the luggage rack and joined the huddle of passengers waiting for the doors to open. Imelda was standing at the platform barrier elegantly swaddled in a long leopard-print coat. She was accompanied by a small, pigeon-grey Staffordshire bull terrier with a wrinkled frown and a slight underbite which made her look permanently grumpy. Her true disposition, however, was betrayed by a stumpy tail that whirled, rather than wagged, with frenetic enthusiasm.