It all had such a familiar ring to it. Peter and Joan had been happy to stand inside the box their parents had built for them, but Evelyn had not. For her, a dull office job felt like a prison sentence. Keeping her in Southwold had been like trapping a tiger in a camper van and then parking it on the drive where it could see the road to freedom. Every time she had switched on the television, she saw actresses doing precisely what she wanted to do, but in order to have this for herself she’d had to defy her parents and flee. In this regard Evelyn supposed that she and her visitor were very much alike.

That wasn’t everything, though, Evelyn was sure. There was something more than just a need to break away and follow their own path that the two women had in common. Even if she hadn’t managed to identify exactly what the connection was, she had definitely felt it. There was something in Philippa Rose’s past that didn’t sit straight with what she had told her so far, something shadowy and unspoken. There had to be, or else what was she doing living here and working in a charity shop, rather than being a barrister in London? Something must have dragged her back. She had mentioned both her parents so it was unlikely to be a recent bereavement, but nonetheless she seemed to be carrying a melancholic burden deep inside her. Evelyn would be prepared to put money on there being something heavy in her heart. She could see it in Pip’s eyes. It was something Evelyn saw in her own eyes every time she looked in the mirror.

That was why she’d invited the girl back. She wanted to get to the bottom of her story, and she felt, given the right encouragement, that Philippa Rose would open up to her. Evelyn might even be able to help.

It was a risky strategy, though. It was crystal clear that she had read the diary. Why else would she manufacture all that guff about wanting to hear about Evelyn’s acting past? No. Our Philippa Rose was trying to find out what had happened here. She was fishing.

Evelyn opened the diary and flicked the pages over until she came to the relevant entry. Wednesday 30th November. There had always been a risk in writing it down, but the risk had always felt infinitesimally small. After all, who was going to read her diary? There had been no chance that it would be opened by anyone but her; not until she died, at least, and by then it wouldn’t matter.