It was at this moment that Paula remembered the video footage. The photographer’s nephew was twenty-one, straight out of college and clearly had some artistic notions, because he had edited the highlights package as if it were a Hollywood trailer. There was the bunting going up. The cake arriving. The flowers and buffet being arranged and set out. Here came Jeanie and Harry, happy and excited to see the gold-foil banner fluttering, the beautifully decorated hall. Here were the guests, hugs and handshakes, joyful exclamations. Brief excerpts from the speeches, some dance-floor action – oh God, just look at Paula’s Aunty Pen, what was she like? – and then . . . Paula paused the film. And then there she was again, visible at the edge of the dance-floor shot, just edging into view. Frankie, all nervous and doubtful, those big, dark eyes sliding around the place.

Paula pressed Pause, watched it again. But there was more, because here came her dad in the background, the strangest expression on his face, as if Frankie were some otherworldly apparition. He had his arms stretched out towards her, his mouth open and marvelling. How can this be? his eyes were saying. Is it really you?

Then, almost immediately, Jeanie was in shot – and just look at her, puffing up like a defensive cat, grabbing hold of Harry’s arm, possessive and commanding, practically dragging him away. You could just glimpse the shocked expression, the agony of Frankie’s face, before the camera angle changed again, this time to show Bunny dancing with Dave, the two of them laughing as she tried to teach him a routine. Rewind, play. Rewind, play.

‘See?’ she said to Matt, showing him. ‘Look! It’s her – it’s Frankie.’

‘Bloody hell,’ he said leaning over and peering at the screen. ‘She doesn’t half look like you.’

‘I know!’ Rewind, play. She couldn’t help watching it all over again, a mini saga dramatized in a few short frames: hope, recognition, rejection. Rewind, play. Her sister.

Matt had wandered over to the fridge and was peering forlornly inside. ‘What were you thinking for dinner?’ he asked. ‘Only I said I’d meet Gav at seven-thirty for a drink. Want me to start peeling anything? Chopping anything? Searching out a takeaway menu?’

He was always starving after a day’s work, Matt. Doubly starving if he’d been swimming as well. Reminded of this, Paula felt as if she’d been awoken from an enchantment and finally dragged her eyes away from the screen. ‘Oh. Yeah, sorry. Um . . .’ She’d been planning to bake some haddock fillets with lemon and black pepper, roast a tray of baby Jersey Royals, and dish it all up with green salad and garlicky tomatoes. Clearly none of that had happened, though. ‘Is it outrageous to get a takeaway on a Monday night?’ she asked apologetically.