‘When you said to me you were worried about losing Fergus, and how that would mean you were no longer a mum . . . it broke my heart. Because you’re the best mum,’ he went on. ‘A wonderful mum. And think about it: a little brother or sister for Ferg, an extra member of the family – the chance for you to pass on your seriously excellent genes to another human being. I mean, come on. What sort of idiot wouldn’t want that?’

He grinned at her and it was all she could do not to grab him by the shirt collar and attempt some baby-making right there and then. She leaned in to kiss him instead, her heart filling with happiness. ‘Well, this idiot isn’t about to turn you down,’ she said, smiling. ‘Okay then, you’re on: let’s make some huge lifetime commitments together. As many as possible. Count me in for the long haul.’

Frankie was interrupted from her misty-eyed reverie just then by a tap on her arm. ‘Hello,’ said a voice, and Frankie jumped as she realized that Jeanie was standing next to her, lips pursed as if she meant business. Oh, Christ – here we go. She’d had nightmares about this moment.

‘Hi,’ she said politely, casting around to see if Paula or Harry had noticed her predicament, but neither of them was looking her way. ‘Um.’ She swallowed. ‘Thanks so much for letting me come here today. I really appreciate it.’

Jeanie gave a curt little nod, her eyes giving nothing away. ‘I was wondering . . .’ she said in the next moment, and Frankie held her breath, imagining all the different ways this sentence could end, every single one of them unspeakably awful. ‘The painting you did for Paula,’ Jeanie went on. ‘It’s very good. Very good indeed. Matt said you did it all from photographs.’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ Frankie replied cautiously. Okay, so of all the imaginary conversations she had played out in her head with her father’s wife, it was fair to say that none of them had started like this.

‘Well.’ Jeanie still hadn’t quite managed to look at her properly yet, her gaze fixed on the middle distance between them. ‘I was wondering,’ she began again, and then she did look at Frankie and, to Frankie’s surprise, actually seemed kind of nervous. ‘Do you . . . Might you . . . take a new commission? For Harry’s Christmas present? Only our last dog died a year ago, and I know Harry still misses him very badly.’ Her lips twisted together slightly, and Frankie had the impression that it wasn’t only Harry who missed the dog. ‘If I got some photographs together, do you think you could – I mean, I’m sure you’re very busy, but . . . ?’

‘I would love to,’ Frankie told her warmly, a lump in her throat. ‘Of course I will. What sort of dog was he?’