They were sitting in the airport car park, his suitcase in the back of Paula’s car, a printed boarding pass and his passport in a plastic wallet by his feet. At long last Harry Mortimer was ready to catch his flight to Madeira and, without wanting to sound unkind, it had not come a moment too soon for his long-suffering daughter. Much as Paula loved her dad, he was not the easiest of house-guests, she had discovered. It hadn’t once occurred to him, for instance, to fill the dishwasher or clean up after himself – well, until Paula blew her top the night before, that was. ‘No wonder Mum has extended her holiday several times over!’ she’d snapped, having come home after a long day’s work to find the house a tip and the clean, wet laundry still in the washing machine, where it had been all day, Harry not having thought to hang it out. ‘Dad, if you’re going to make things work with Mum, you could do worse than mucking in a bit around the house, you know.’

They’d made up soon enough – Paula had a quick temper and had apologized for her outburst almost immediately, and then he’d apologized too, quite humbly, for his domestic failings. All the same, she’d been so exasperated that she’d quite forgotten to show him the Guardian article featuring Frankie that Fliss had sent her – until now, the next day. Having arrived at the airport with time to spare before Harry could check in, Paula had belatedly remembered, and looked up the feature on her iPad for him to see.

‘My goodness me,’ he said, biting his lip. He gave a shaky little laugh. ‘This is very strange. Reading about my own daughter on a website. Seeing her, almost for the first time, as a grown woman. A successful woman, too.’ He blinked several times more, seemingly overcome.

‘I know,’ said Paula. ‘I did some Googling, and she’s done all kinds of other work as well – greetings cards and stuff, it’s all really good. She’s talented.’ Hopefully not too talented that she wouldn’t want to know provincial estate agent Paula, she had found herself thinking the night before, as she pored over Frankie’s online portfolio. Was it awful that she had felt the tiniest stabbings of envy, the faintest prickles of inferiority? ‘Obviously gets it from her mum,’ she joked, nudging Harry in the hope of lightening the mood, and was rewarded by a small smile from him. Then she hesitated before adding, ‘I guess the big question now is: do you want me to try and get in touch with her while you’re away? I mean . . . I’d like to, but Mum was pretty clear about how she felt. I don’t want to tread on any toes, if you’d rather not go there.’