‘She didn’t want to be a mother,’ Amy says. ‘She wanted to be an artist. He didn’t let her. And then he betrayed her. Again and again and again.’ She thinks of Eleanor, now living in a commune in Santa Fe, painting spare landscapes: bones and blistered wood, seedpods and paintbrush trees. They email now and again, but as far as she knows, Bethany and Nick refused to keep in touch with her.

‘It wasn’t his drinking, then?’

‘It didn’t help – he was a heavy drinker, but he wasn’t an alcoholic. He was absent, whether he was with us or not.’

She looks out at the impossible blue of the sea and feels as if her mother is right there, like a mirage, shimmering in the desert, sand swirling round her long tunic, holding a paintbrush in her hand. What would she say now?

Nick looks upset. ‘Did Bethany know? Is that why she went and lived with one of Dad’s friends, instead of moving into his flat?’

Amy feels bad now, but it’s not up to her to tell him Bethany’s secrets. ‘I don’t know, Nick,’ she says, the guilt fuelling her anger.

Well,’ he says, ‘people change. He’s our dad. He needs our help. Please, Amy.’

She folds her arms. ‘I can’t forgive him. And I don’t know why you have. But I won’t turn him out on the street.’

‘Or into an olive grove? Thanks, Sis.’ He hesitates and then gives her a hug.

13 AUGUST, ITALY

17

NICK

Dad doesn’t appear at breakfast, and Amy must have spoken to Matt because he doesn’t have a go at me. I’m sitting in miserable silence, hunched over my toast, wishing the Italians made marmalade and doing my best not to think about what Amy told me yesterday. I keep imagining Dad in my – or, rather, his – flat. The grief and sadness I felt when I was twelve years old, after our mum left, threatens to overwhelm me all over again. I’m also not sure what to make of his assurances that he wasn’t drinking – that he doesn’t drink any more – and of Amy telling me he has shots of cider brandy when he thinks no one is watching.

Bethany and Joe bounce in, like a fake couple in a sportswear catalogue.

‘Joe’s found this amazing beach. We should go. Come on guys, you’ll love it!’

Bethany’s enthusiasm is legendary, as is her ability to get her own way. She bulldozes through our inertia and, in a little over an hour, which I’m beginning to realize is fast when small people and a teenager are involved, we’re en route. We can just about fit all of us in the people-carrier by squashing Lotte and Theo on our knees, in spite of Amy’s protests.