‘Because having children is the best thing in life. Even if it doesn’t work out, if one dies and the other is too scarred by his death to come home, it’s something to be proud of. Being a parent gives you purpose.’

Beth feels a desperate urge to tell her dad about Martha and Ava. To reassure him that she has that purpose, that all the lies she tells are to protect her babies. But she knows it would be too cruel to announce it now, when he’s so frail, that he’s been a grandparent for seven years already. And of course, there would also be the fallout of her mum finding out. A thousand regrets threaten to overwhelm her, but she must stay strong. A few more hours and she can go back to the cocoon of her luxury life. She scratches her palm, wonders whether she’s trapped dead skin cells under her nails, and yearns to wash them again. ‘Perhaps I’ll change my mind,’ she offers. Anything to soften the desperation on his face. ‘There is still time,’ she whispers.

‘That would be wonderful,’ he whispers back.

She sees him smile with relief and wishes that she could tell him about Simon too, the man who’s protected her since university. Not in a physical sense – he’s no broad-chested superhero – but by his privilege. His distance from the life she led before.

Beth’s phone suddenly rings out in her pocket and she jumps. She usually keeps it on silent, but she switched the volume on when she left London, a way to assuage the guilt of her secret excursion. She draws it out of her pocket and looks at the name on the screen. Her eyes widen and she flips it over, just in case lung cancer has improved her dad’s eyesight. ‘I need to take this,’ she says, standing up and pointing at the phone. For a moment her dad looks curious, like he might ask who it is – work, boyfriend, father to his now possible future grandchildren – but then his eyes droop slightly and he nods. With an invisible sigh of relief, Beth backs out of the room, and shuts herself in the bathroom again. She leans against the thin door and prods her screen. ‘Hello? Are the girls okay?’

‘Ah thank goodness. Mrs Packard. I was worried you weren’t going to pick up.’ Mrs Gilbert, the school receptionist, sighs into the phone. Mrs Gilbert is in her late fifties, stick-thin and wears her glasses on a silver chain around her neck. Beth imagines her calmly twirling the tiny links between her fingers.

‘The girls, please, I need to know they’re okay.’

‘Of course you do, my apologies. Both Martha and Ava are safe and well. But there has been an incident, and Ava is a bit distressed. Mrs Crowmarsh thought it would be a good idea if you came to collect her.’