‘There’s nothing I want to talk about. Liberty’s never met him and that’s how it’s going to stay. Everything is near-perfect here. You have no idea how perfect. Liberty’s father would ruin everything.’

We hear the beautiful ebb and flow of acoustic guitar drift over our open-plan living area, floating past the panoramic windows and out into woodland, joining the birds fluttering from tree to tree.

Liberty is musically talented. No doubt about that. I wish she weren’t. There would be fewer questions.

I look at the staircase. ‘I’ll go talk to her. Make sure she’s okay.’

‘Have a good honest talk with her, Lorna. Get everything out in the open.’

A shiver runs through me.

If I were totally honest with Liberty, I’d lose her forever. I’d lose Nick too. He really has no idea.

‘Lorna?’ Nick’s watching me, and I realize my fists are balled.

‘I’m okay. Honestly. It’s just … Liberty and I have been through a lot. I’ll talk to her and smooth things over.’

Nick pulls me into another big, strong hug. ‘Just remember, she’s a kid who’s dealing with a lot. Sixteen is a tough age. I wouldn’t want some weird guy moving into my house, sharing my mum’s bedroom.’

‘Don’t forget your hair in the bathroom.’

We both manage something like a laugh.

‘Listen,’ says Nick. ‘Maybe you’ve got good reasons for keeping her away from her dad. But let the girl go out with her friends of an evening, at least. If she had more freedom, I think it would help a lot. With everything.’

‘You don’t understand teenagers,’ I say. ‘Freedom is the last thing she needs.’

Lorna

Liberty’s is a musician’s bedroom. No doubt about that. Most teenagers spend their allowance on clothes. Liberty buys electric guitars, tribal drums, electric drum kits and keyboards.

Liberty sort of knows music. Picks up instruments and understands how they work. I’ve never taught her – she taught herself. She has GarageBand on her laptop, surround-sound speakers and a very cool 1960s orange Dansette record player with a cube of vinyl beside it. Van Halen, Suzi Quatro, Joan Jett and Kiss are arranged alphabetically.

‘Liberty?’ I knock on the bedroom door even though it’s already open.

Liberty sits on a rice-filled bean bag, holding one of her acoustic guitars: the red one she bought at a school jumble sale without telling me. She’s changed out of her school uniform into tight black jeans and a Runaways T-shirt. Skywalker lays beside her, head on her thigh.

It’s still light outside, and the room twinkles with sunshine.

Liberty looks up. ‘What?’

‘Hey. Sorry. Okay?’