He’s proud of her, but they were all taken aback when Chloe failed her GCSEs and then dropped out of the college where she was meant to be doing retakes. She’s on a gap year, volunteering for ActionAid. Amy would never have predicted that Chloe, who only last year had spent all her time borrowing Bethany’s makeup and posting videos of herself on Instagram, would choose to go and live in a country where most people are without running water, let alone an Internet signal.

In a week Ruby-May would have been five years old. Amy finds it hard to imagine her as a little girl instead of a toddler: those soft, chubby cheeks disappearing, legs folded with rolls of fat suddenly long and lean. Ruby-May has been dead for almost as long as she had been alive. Amy thinks about her daughter every day, and sometimes the pain is unbearable. But a feeling has crept up on her slowly, not quite of contentment, and certainly not of happiness, but perhaps something approaching it.

Matt slides his phone into his pocket and leans over and kisses her on the cheek.

‘Shall I get the picnic out, before these locusts eat it all?’

‘Thanks. I’ll give you a hand.’

‘Shame about the no-alcohol rule. I could murder a can of cider,’ Nick says, squinting at the sun. ‘Anyone want a coffee? Or an ice cream?’ he asks Lotte and Theo.

‘Nick! We’re just about to have our lunch,’ she says, as the children scream over her.

Nick winks at them. ‘What are uncles for? Want to come with me and choose?’

‘I’d like vanilla in a tub,’ their father says, and Nick gives him a thumbs up.

‘I’ll come with you,’ Matt says, abandoning his attempt at finding plates and napkins. He ruffles Lotte’s hair and the four of them head off in the direction of the cafe, Lotte and Theo shouting out their favourite flavours. Amy has a momentary pang as she remembers that summer two years ago when her children ate nothing but ice cream for the best part of a week. Her therapist would tell her not to be so hard on herself.

She has an urge to turn to Bethany and roll her eyes; to giggle, as her sister, always braver and bolder than she ever was, who would have sneaked a bottle of chilled Prosecco into the park and would, right now, be attempting to pop the cork and pour the fizz into plastic tumblers without anyone seeing. In spite of everything that’s happened, she misses her, as if, like missing her daughter, it’s hard-wired in her to grieve.