She’s aware that Nick and Chloe keep in touch with Bee, but she doesn’t ask about her. As far as she knows, Bethany’s still in Los Angeles. She takes out a bottle of ‘fake wine’, as Matt calls it, and pours her father a glass and then one for herself.

‘Thanks, darling,’ he says, taking a sip. He makes a face and sighs. She’s about to unpack the rest of the picnic from the coolbox, when she notices Nick’s phone. He’s left it on his chair. She picks it up, wondering if he meant to leave it or if she should shout after him. He’ll be back soon, though, she thinks. She’s about to slide it into her pocket to keep it safe, when she sees what’s on the screen. He’s been looking at an Instagram account: Trixie Flora. Bethany, of course. The profile photo is disconcerting – she can see traces of the sister she once had, beneath this new woman’s shiny skin, glossy gold hair, white teeth and small, straight nose. She doesn’t want to look at Trixie’s pictures – they’re a nauseating blur of swimmingpool blues and palm-tree greens, gold chains and designer bikinis.

She takes a breath and a large swallow of the fake wine. It’s not bad, and drinking it over the past few months has helped her cut down on the real stuff. In any case, Ruby-May’s room has been turned into a spare bedroom – it’s where Chloe stayed before she left for Zambia – and that had meant getting rid of the bottle of gin tucked behind Peter Rabbit.

But then, in spite of herself, she clicks on the last photo in her sister’s account. It’s of Bee in sunglasses, a tightly belted coat and killer stilettos striding through an airport with a large suitcase. She scrolls down to the text below and reads:

At LAX!

Taking a break from telly and heading back to Blighty. Thank you for all your support! Love and kisses

She thinks she’s going to be sick. Bethany posted this photo eleven hours ago. Which means, she works out, bile rising in her throat, that her sister will be landing at Heathrow any moment. What the hell does she want? Is she on her way here, to Somerset? She drops the phone as if she’s been burned.

Matt and Nick are strolling towards her, the children licking Cornettos, the ice cream already melting and dribbling down their chins and wrists.

‘You all right, love?’ asks Matt. ‘You look a bit pale. On the hard stuff already?’ He smiles, seeing her glass of non-alcoholic white wine.

She doesn’t know what to say – how to express in words the sense that this fragile peace they’ve all been reaching towards is about to be shattered.

Her brother passes a tub of vanilla ice cream to their father.