Paula read the text – Love is in the air! – and smiled at the accompanying photo: a selfie of her parents, shoulders together as they beamed into the camera, holding cocktails with paper umbrellas. Her mum’s face was a deep mahogany, while her dad’s nose had turned a bit pink; skin shades that told the story of their stand-off separation. But they were smiling at least, she thought, and comfortable in each other’s presence again. Enjoying our second honeymoon – better late than never! Harry had written in a second text, along with several thumbs-up emojis. We’ll be back on Sunday.

She forwarded the texts to her brothers, just in case they didn’t know this good news for themselves, then gazed out at the river, the sun sparkling on it in gold flashes as one of the tourist cruisers went chugging beneath Lendal Bridge. It was her lunch-hour and she’d managed to nab a bench down by the water, wanting somewhere more private than the office to make a personal call. It was silly, but her heart was thumping as she pulled out the scrap of paper where she’d jotted down the number. Constance Albright, Artists’ Agent, the website had said, detailing a list of the various illustrators, painters and fine artists represented. And there was Frankie, along with a mini-portfolio and biography: bold, humorous artwork, and details of her successes. A range of greetings cards. Prints of zoo animals against bright backgrounds. A couple of children’s picture books, as well as the column with her partner, Craig, which had been running for almost four years. There was also a beautiful black-and-white photograph of her where she’d been positioned side-on, looking over her shoulder slightly with an arch, I-see-you sort of half-smile. She looked friendly, good fun, Paula had thought, gazing at the warmth of her half-sister’s eyes, the gorgeous wide mouth that looked as if it might open at any moment in a laugh. She appeared to be the sort of sister, in other words, that Paula had always hankered after.

‘Constance Albright speaking, how may I help you?’ came the voice down the phone when Paula finally plucked up the courage to dial.

‘Hi. Um. Bit of a strange request,’ she confessed, ‘but I’m ringing about one of your artists – Frankie Carlyle.’

‘Oh yes? After a commission, are you?’ was the reply.

‘Not exactly,’ Paula replied. ‘It’s a personal matter. I wondered if there was a way of getting in touch with her directly, an email address or . . .’

‘Ah. No, I’m afraid not.’ Constance Albright sounded curtly disapproving at the question – and fair enough, Paula supposed; she had to protect the privacy of her clients. ‘I can’t give out that sort of information. If you want to leave your contact details with me, I can pass them on to her, but—’