She rubs her eyes. There’s a half-open shed a little way from the house, screened by some stunted cypress trees. In the cool darkness at the back, there are large plastic containers with chemicals for cleaning the pool, a rusting rake and a brush. Drifts of desiccated olive leaves crunch beneath her feet. For a moment they pause. From here, in between the trees, she can see bright slivers of the pool, of her family, sprawled out on their loungers. In fact from this angle they can see directly into Bethany’s and Chloe’s bedrooms. She imagines her sister padding about, naked; Chloe in her bra and pants admiring herself in the mirror or, more likely, obsessing about how she looks, trying on different outfits. Amy shivers in spite of the heat. She should tell them to keep the curtains closed.

‘If he’d only apologize—’

‘He says he wasn’t drunk,’ Nick interrupts. ‘He can’t drink, because he’s on some medication.’

‘Warfarin. It hasn’t stopped him. He isn’t drinking wine any more, but he still has shots of that cider brandy his neighbour Tony brews.’

Nick frowns. ‘You said he’d had half a bottle of red.’

She shakes her head. ‘You must have misremembered. You weren’t even there. It was definitely brandy. That stuff Tony makes is lethal. Dad probably isn’t even aware of how much he’s drinking. What does it matter anyway? The point is, he was drunk.’

The wings of cricket-like creatures brush drily against her calves and she walks on. Nick follows. They turn the corner and face the sea. Gulls wheel on the thermals like pterosaurs, and shouts and laughter drift up from the beach hidden below.

‘It’s just an excuse,’ she says, suddenly angry – with her father, for his stubbornness; and with her brother, for making her face the anniversary of her daughter’s death with the person responsible. ‘You do know he used to bring them to the flat, the one you live in now.’

‘Who? What are you talking about?’

She wants to hurt him for bringing their father here. ‘The women. All the women.’

‘What women?’ he asks.

‘Nick, you must have known.’ She’s impatient with him now. ‘That’s why Dad didn’t come home during the week. It’s not like Bristol is that far away. He lived with them in his flat, and then he came back to Somerset at the weekends.’

‘What? Dad did that?’

She wants to shake him. ‘All through our childhood. Why do you think Mum left?’ She wonders if Nick still blames himself for their mother leaving; kids often do, don’t they?

‘I didn’t…’ He presses his fingers against his temples. After a few moments he says, ‘She should never have left. Us, I mean. What kind of a woman does that? Even if—’