Amy checks the clock in the kitchen. It’s early evening. Nick really should be here any minute, she thinks, but doesn’t say it out loud, in case his taxi is late and the children badger them even more. She lays the table. There’s fresh bread from Carlo’s family’s farm – Chloe went to buy it from them this morning. She’s put pizza on trays ready to go in the oven (surely they’ve got to be better than shop-bought ones from home?) and has made a salad out of tomatoes, basil, mozzarella and olive oil. She’s laid out butter, extra Parmesan, already grated, a plate of cheese and prosciutto, a jug with sliced lemon and cold water. It’s not what she’d call cooking, but it makes her feel slightly calmer: she’s managed to put together a meal without walking out or throwing it in the bin halfway through. It’s progress of sorts. She pops the cork on a bottle of Prosecco and pours herself a glass.

‘Would you like one?’ she asks, as Bethany drifts in from the pool.

‘I can’t believe you’ve started without me!’

Amy hasn’t even taken a sip of her own drink, but she sets her glass down and picks up a champagne flute for her sister. In spite of last night, she’s still nervous around Bethany; she’s afraid she’ll remember what happened and will lash out at Bee when her guard is down. But then Bee chinks her glass against hers, making a high-pitched ting, and she realizes her sister wasn’t being serious.

‘Cheers!’ Bethany says and squeezes Amy’s shoulder, smiling at her. ‘Thank God I’m on holiday and can have a glass or two of wine without Joe ticking me off. By the way, he won’t eat that. Sorry, should have warned you.’

‘I won’t eat what?’ asks Joe.

He’s entered the kitchen almost soundlessly. He’s wearing flipflops, shorts and a vest and already has a warm glow from the sun on his shoulders and cheekbones. Amy hasn’t got the energy for this conversation. She’s been worrying about money. They haven’t got enough to pay for the holiday, even sharing the cost of the house and the food and the hire car, but Matt had agreed to it because, well, what else could he do? Anywhere in the UK would have been as expensive and would have reminded them too much of Somerset. Not to commemorate the day in some way would also have been unthinkable. And if they’d gone on as they were, then Nick’s right: it’s quite likely they’d never have spoken to one another again.

She’s not really listening as Joe, who’s spotted the pizza, is telling her how he doesn’t eat refined carbs, when they hear the crunch of tyres in the gravel.