Is something really wrong with her father? Bethany had taken him for a private check-up after the accident. Her sister said he showed early signs of dementia – and who knows, he could have got worse over the past few months.

But if Matt’s right, and there’s nothing really wrong with her dad, then that is much, much worse. Because it means that it was her father’s fault their youngest daughter died, through sheer negligence, drunkenness and self-centredness, and not because he’s in the grip of a disease that is rotting his brain, neurone by neurone.

She stands at the foot of the bed and notices the weary sag in her husband’s shoulders, the smattering of hairs on his chest that have turned white, and the effort he’s making to contain his anger.

Where will it stop? If Matt won’t forgive her father, then he won’t forgive Bethany for asking their dad to look after Ruby-May; he won’t forgive Nick for not being there; he won’t forgive her. He won’t ever forgive any of them. They were all responsible.

Below her, Chloe is floating on her back in the water. Her hair is fanned out, straight as seaweed, and her white bikini glows in the moonlight.

‘You should tell Chloe to go to bed,’ she says.

‘Don’t take it out on my daughter!’

A muscle at his jaw twitches and he snaps the magazine back to the page he was reading.

There are so many stars in the sky: seventy thousand million million million; by their faint light, she thinks she can still see the dark shape in the shadows by the edge of the pool, watching her stepdaughter. Bethany? Or is it Joe?

10

AMY

She’s sleeping in the bowels of a boat. Her bunk bed is rocking slightly. She gets up and the ground tilts beneath her feet. She’s filled with a dreadful certainty that something is wrong. She climbs the narrow stairs up to the deck, holding tightly to the rail. It’s a clear night. There’s a smudged half-moon that’s broken into fragments on the sharp-edged black waves. She looks around, but she’s alone. The wind sings through the slack sails and the wooden hull creaks. They’re drifting slowly: the sails are at half-mast and there’s no wind. She turns towards to the tiller and sees there’s no one at the helm of the ship. Nobody is steering. She chokes back a sob and makes for the ship’s wheel, when she hears a splash and a gasp. She can’t tell where it’s coming from.

She looks over one side and then hears a desperate, ‘Mummy!’

She runs to the other side, shouting, ‘Coming, sweetheart, I’m coming!’