Minnie regards the red splodges stonily. ‘Dat not de schlowers. Dat de schlowers.’ She jabs her finger at a tiny blue stripe which I hadn’t even noticed. ‘Dat de schlowers.’ Her brows are lowered and she’s giving me an imperious frown. ‘DAT DE SCHLOWERS!’ she suddenly yells, sounding like a commandant ordering an execution.

‘Right,’ I say hastily. ‘Silly me. Of course that’s the schlowers. Lovely!’

‘Is that your daughter?’ To my surprise, Sage has got out of the SUV after me. ‘I have to say hello. Too cute! Listen to her little British accent! Come here, sweetie.’ She lifts Minnie up and swings her around till Minnie starts squealing with delight. The photographers are all clicking away so fast, it sounds like an insect infestation.

‘Sage,’ I say. ‘We don’t want Minnie to be photographed.’

But Sage doesn’t hear me. She’s running around the drive with Minnie, the two of them in fits of laughter.

‘Pleeeeease!’ Minnie is reaching out for the swirly Missoni sunglasses. ‘Pleeeeease!’

‘No, these are mine! But you can have some.’ Sage rummages in her bag and produces another pair of sunglasses. She gives Minnie a kiss on the nose, then puts the sunglasses on her. ‘Adorable!’

‘Sage!’ I try again. ‘Stop it! I need to get Minnie inside!’

My phone suddenly bleeps with a text, and feeling hassled, I pull it out. It’s from Mum.

Becky. Very urgent. Mum

What? What’s very urgent? I feel a spasm of alarm, mixed with frustration. What kind of message is ‘Very urgent’? I speed-dial her number and wait impatiently for the connection.

‘Mum!’ I say as soon as she answers. ‘What is it?’

‘Oh, Becky.’ Her voice is wobbling. ‘It’s Dad. He’s gone!’

‘Gone?’ I say stupidly. ‘What do you mean, gone?’

‘He’s gone to LA! He left a note! A note! After all these years of marriage, a note! I’ve been to Bicester Village with Janice for the day – I got a lovely bag at the Cath Kidston outlet shop – and when I came back he’d gone! To America!’

I stare at the phone, flabbergasted. ‘But what – I mean, where—’

‘In the note, he said he needed to track down his friend. Brent Lewis? The one you looked up?’

Oh, for God’s sake. Not this again.

‘But why?’

‘He didn’t say!’ Mum’s voice rises hysterically. ‘I have no idea who this friend is, even!’

There’s a slight edge of panic to her voice, which I can understand. The thing about my Dad is, he seems like this very straight-down-the-line, normal family man. But there’s a bit more to him than that. A few years ago we all discovered that he had another daughter – my half-sister Jess – about whom nobody had known a thing.

I mean, to be fair to Dad, he hadn’t known either. It’s not like he’d been keeping a massive secret. But I can see why Mum might be a bit paranoid.

‘He said he had something he needed to “put right”,’ Mum is continuing. ‘“Put right”! What does that mean?’