I replay it in my mind. The cloud of rose perfume, the smile, the incomprehensible jokes about crocodiles.

Hang on. Did she do a number on me? It didn’t matter that I failed to get her croc joke. She was trying to chill me out, to distract me. Dad used that technique all the time, and I use it too sometimes. I’m the charmer, never the ‘mark’. The reversal unsettles me, big time.

I turn back to the emails, motoring through them, until I get to an invitation from one of our trade contacts to a barbecue on Saturday. Angelica and Casey are going home for the weekend, so it’s my chance to be selfish for a couple of days again, have a few beers and come home to a place that isn’t filled with Angelica’s simmering resentment.

Exactly what I need after this endless week of playing nice.

Chapter 9: Gemma

Thursday 5 July

I wake in a filthy mood and try to get out of today’s game, but Dad’s having none of it.

Bear stays at home because last time he stole all the balls. I drive towards my home town with the Mini’s roof down, but even the wind in my hair fails to blow away my terrible mood. When a lorry driver cuts me up, I give him both barrels and almost cause a road-rage incident.

Dad’s waiting, with the putters ready, and he pulls me into a massive hug when I get out of the car.

‘Never seen the place this empty,’ I say.

‘I reckon they’re all at the new pirate-ship course they’ve built on the front,’ my father says. ‘People are so disloyal these days.’

We’ve been coming here to play crazy golf since the putters were taller than I was, and we’re both terrible. Mum and Laura can’t understand why Dad and I love it so much, but our incompetence means we’re usually laughing within seconds of reaching the second hole, marked by a windmill with real sails that creak whenever a breeze catches them.

But today our easy banter is beyond me.

‘You seem out of sorts, Little Gemster?’ Dad asks, deliberately focusing on the ball and his next stroke, rather than making eye contact with me.

‘It’s the treatment, that’s all. The idea of going through it again, with no guarantees.’

It’s a half-truth. Because the treatment is getting me down. But I’ve been fed up with the entire world since leaving the oncology unit yesterday. Whatever I do – housework, sketches, throwing the ball for Bear – my mind keeps drifting back to that girl and her terrible dad.

‘Ah.’ Dad strikes the ball and it goes off at a strange angle. He tuts to himself. ‘So how about you start planning for things after the waiting is over? A nice holiday with Bear in a dog-friendly B&B? Or a spa day?’

‘Since when have I been into spa days?’

He shrugs. ‘Only a suggestion.’

‘How can I plan anything when I don’t know if I’ll be – well, you know, if the treatment’s going to work? If it doesn’t, I might want to go bungee jumping or abseiling or something.’