“Minnie,” I say severely. “You haven’t said thank you. And you mustn’t ask for things. What will poor Janice do now? She hasn’t got any sunglasses!”

The sunglasses slither down off Minnie’s nose and she holds them, thinking hard.

“Thank you,” she says at last. “Thank you, Waniss.” (She can’t quite manage “Janice.”) She reaches up, tugs her pink gingham bow out of her hair, and hands it to Janice. “Waniss bow.”

“Darling.” I can’t help giggling. “Janice doesn’t wear hair bows.”

“Nonsense!” says Janice. “That’s lovely, Minnie, thank you.”

She clips the bow into her gray hair, where it perches incongruously, and I feel a sudden wave of affection for her. I’ve known Janice forever, and she’s a bit crazy—but look at this. She’s flown out to L.A. at the drop of a hat, just to support Mum. She’s kept us all amused with stories of her flower-arranging classes and is a nice, cheery presence. (Except when she’s dealing in illegal drugs, obviously.)

“Thanks for coming out, Janice,” I say impulsively, and hug her as best I can, given that her money “safety” belt is protruding like a pregnancy bump at the front of her top. She and Mum are wearing identical models, and if you ask me, they look exactly like an advert to a mugger: STACKS OF CASH HERE. But I haven’t said that to Mum, because she’s hassled enough already.

“Mum…” I turn to hug her too. “Don’t worry. I’m sure Dad’s OK.”

But her shoulders are all tense and she doesn’t hug me back properly. “It’s all very well, Becky,” she says, sounding agitated. “But these secrets and mysteries. It’s not what you want, at my age.”

“I know,” I say soothingly.

“Dad didn’t want to call you Rebecca, you know. It was me who liked the name.”

“I know,” I repeat.

We’ve had this conversation about twenty times. It was practically the first thing I demanded of Mum as soon as I saw her: “Why was I named Rebecca?”

“After the book, you know,” Mum continues. “The Daphne du Maurier book.”

“I know.” I nod patiently.

“And Dad didn’t want it. He suggested Henrietta.” Mum’s face starts to quiver.

“Henrietta.” I wrinkle my nose. I am so not a Henrietta.

“But why didn’t he want to call you Rebecca?” Mum’s voice rises shrilly.

There’s silence, apart from a clicking sound as Mum fidgets with the pearls of her necklace. I feel a pang as I watch her trembling, anxious fingers. Dad gave her that pearl necklace. It’s an antique, from 1895, and I went to help her choose it at the shop, and she was so excited and happy. Every year, Dad gets a BB—what we call his Big Bonus—and spends it on something nice for each of us.

The truth is, my dad’s pretty amazing. He still gets his BB, even now that he’s retired, just for a bit of insurance consultancy. Luke says he must have some really impressive niche knowledge to command such high fees. But he’s so modest, he never boasts about it. He always spends it on treats for us and we have a fun celebratory lunch in London. That’s the kind of man Dad is. He’s generous. He’s loving. He cares about his family. This is all so out of character.