Paula’s words sang around Frankie’s head for the whole evening, and even the next morning she could feel a joyful spring in her step, a new positivity about facing the day. You’ve got guts, Paula had said warmly – admiringly, even! – and every time Frankie thought about this, she felt as if a genetic connection was twanging gently between her and her mother. Kathy had always been the gutsy one, going out on a limb if she felt strongly about a cause, a firm believer in doing the right thing, even if you were afraid. Maybe Frankie was more like her mum than she’d dared hope after all.

Silly, wasn’t it, how you could be so pleased by another person’s throwaway compliment? Sometimes that was all it took to set the tone of the day, though. Because not only did Frankie make an effort and stand at the hob, stirring a pan of creamy porridge for everyone’s breakfast first thing, but then she decided to get on top of the mound of recycling that had been neglected in recent weeks. ‘Ferg, come and help me with the paper,’ she called, dragging the wicker basket out from the side of the sofa, where they dumped old newspapers and letters and other assorted pieces of paper. She didn’t even get cross when, in a fit of mischief, he plunged both hands into the pile and threw a load of it into the air, yelling, ‘It’s snowing!’

Maybe it was some quirk of fate, some little test for this new-found gutsiness of hers, but it just so happened that as she was picking up all the many receipts and old envelopes and other scraps now littered about the carpet, her gaze snagged on some handwritten numbers on one particular piece, and then she realized she was staring at Julia’s contact details, left the first time she’d appeared at the flat. Craig must have discarded the paper into the basket in a we-won’t-be-wanting-THIS sort of gesture.

Coincidence? Or Fate intervening? Who could say, but Frankie found herself thoughtfully tucking the paper into the back pocket of her denim skirt all the same. Just in case it was needed.

The Julia situation was still bubbling away beneath the surface, needless to say. Despite Frankie’s protestations, Craig had sent his spiteful mother-bashing column to his editor, Vicki, who had promptly phoned him in concern. ‘You know we can’t print this,’ she’d said. ‘Come on, Craig, she’s a real person, we don’t want a lawsuit on our hands.’