But the other thing I know is that if I chose her over my daughter, it would prove I am not worthy of either of them.

‘So what’s it to be, Dan? Personally, Gemma seems the better choice to me, for quick thrills anyway. Better for Casey too.’

‘This isn’t a game to me, Angelica. I want to change. I am changing already.’

She finishes her water slowly. ‘Well, it’s your choice. But I bet you haven’t told Gemma the details of how you screwed me over. And I know for sure that Casey doesn’t have the full story.’

‘You’d tell them, to stop me being happy? To stop me being there for both of them?’

Angelica shrugs. ‘These things have a funny way of coming out when you least expect it.’

If only I’d told Gemma sooner, this wouldn’t matter. I could laugh off Angelica’s threats. But I’ve been a coward. And although I do now want to tell Gemma the truth, I can’t bear the idea of my daughter knowing everything too.

‘Even if it’d hurt Casey more than anyone?’

She snorts. ‘It’s about her happiness in the long term. I’m a she-cat where my daughter’s concerned. I’ve had to be. At least you have a choice, which is more than I did.’

Except it isn’t even a choice, is it? There are hundreds, even thousands, of men who could make Gemma happy – probably happier than I would. But Casey only has one dad. I’m flawed, but I’m it.

Angelica’s eyes bore into mine and her usually expressionless face lights up with triumph. She’s got me. The only way to prove to her that I deserve to be in our daughter’s life, to stop her taking Casey away from me, is to sacrifice the possibility of a future with Gemma.

Chapter 34: Gemma

Monday 23 July

The heat wakes me at 4 a.m.

Not only the heat. It’s also knowing that in ten hours I’ll be seeing Dan again. Yesterday dragged so much without him.

I try to work on the bank commission, but the heel of my hand sticks to the paper. On the horizon, balloons puff up like ripening berries. It’s going to be the hottest day yet. What am I going to wear?

I return to my suitcase of old clothes. Each garment triggers memories of carefree summers gone by, but the one I pick is a green batik skirt I wore all the time at art school. It still fits me perfectly: I’ve had the same curves since my teens. I add a white linen-mix top with a stretchy neckline that I could tease off my shoulders later, to look sexier . . . I haven’t thought about trying to look sexy in so long.

In the bedroom mirror, the top billows out. I flatten it with my hand, but when I catch sight of my face in the mirror, there’s something about the reflection that makes me wonder . . .

No. The transfer was only six days ago. Of course I wouldn’t be showing yet. But my eyes have a strange glow, and the linen fabric feels almost abrasive against my skin. I can’t remember a sensation quite like this before.