Paula sank into the chair next to him, still hardly able to believe the text that had arrived from her mum. I’ve decided to stay here a bit longer, it had said, verging on brutal in its simplicity. Having a lovely time. Not sure when I’ll be back.

‘What happens now,’ Paula replied, massaging her temple where the first stab of a headache was setting in, ‘is that Dad has to convince her to come home. Somehow or other. Otherwise . . .’ She shrugged, grim-faced, and shook her head. ‘Otherwise, your guess is as good as mine.’

Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

I know you said you didn’t want to know, Frankie’s mum Kathy had written at some undetermined point in the past, but just in case you ever change your mind, these are the facts. The letter had been tucked in an album of baby photos that Gareth had put in a box for her when he’d cleared out the family home, after Kathy had died. Frankie might not have discovered the missive for years and years, perhaps never, if Fergus hadn’t disputed the fact that she and Craig had ever been babies themselves, back on a sleety winter’s day. ‘No,’ he had decreed firmly, dark curls bouncing as he shook his head. ‘You are my mumma and daddy. Not babies.’ Laughingly, Craig had found an old photo of himself as a newborn, as the blinking, wobbly-headed proof, and Frankie had been requisitioned to find one of her, too. The letter had slipped out of the photo album, still smelling faintly of her mum’s perfume, and with a deafening crack Pandora’s box had shattered clean open.

A letter? For me? Of course she had opened it at once, photos forgotten, tearing through the envelope with a bubble of joy swelling in her chest. One last surprise from her mother, one final letter that she hadn’t been expecting! What a gift, what a blessing, she had thought, delighted. But then of course she had read those opening warning sentences and had reared back immediately, joy replaced by apprehension, her heart giving a hard, worried gallop. She had looked away, troubled, but felt her attention dragged back, like a driver compelled to stare at a traffic pile-up on the other side of the motorway. Don’t want to look. Want to see. Don’t want to know. But how bad is it?

She had sat there, the letter in her lap, and gazed up in anguish at the bedroom window as if seeking guidance. You were right the first time, Mum: I didn’t want to know. I was happy with you, and then with you and Gareth, and that was enough for me.