She sipped her Negroni appreciatively, enjoying the gentle splashing sounds of the pool nearby, appreciating the smell of the evening buffet that was just starting to waft out from the dining hall. She’d had an aromatherapy massage in the spa earlier and her skin was still soft and fragranced. Afterwards, the charming masseuse had talked her into a special promotion they were running, where you could have a half-price cut and colour done in their salon next door. Jeanie had been feeling so floaty from the massage that she’d promptly booked herself in for tomorrow. A makeover, she kept thinking excitedly, wondering if she should take the plunge and go for some honey-coloured highlights, just to take the edge off all that grey. She’d grown up thinking vanity was frivolity, but maybe she’d been wrong. It was only a bit of fun! And why not reflect the new carefree Jeanie with a new carefree look?

Another day in paradise, she thought happily, turning the page of her book. She had a cocktail at hand, the sun was still shining and she was blissfully relaxed. Best of all, there’d be a day just the same as this tomorrow. The day after, too. And after that . . . well, who could say?

‘Dad,’ Paula began, as they sat opposite one another at the Formica-topped table. She’d suggested lunch in his favourite café in town, the one run by an old teaching pal of his, where the staff called him Hazza and slipped him an extra fried egg with his all-day breakfast. Now that they were here, though, with the coffee machine hissing behind them and the smell of sizzling bacon in the air, the words she wanted to say were surprisingly hard to extricate.

‘Yes, love,’ he said, sawing through his jumbo sausage. ‘Everything all right?’

‘I just wanted to know about Frankie, Dad.’ She turned her fork through her gluey orange baked beans, too churned up with anticipation to feel very hungry. ‘If you’ve heard any more from her. And about what happened with her mum.’

Harry put his cutlery down. ‘Ah,’ he said, the smile sliding from his face. ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘I haven’t heard from her. She must have my address – Lynne next door said she was knocking at our place the day of the party, before Lynne sent her on to the hall, thinking she was a guest. But I don’t know where she lives. I don’t even know her second name,’ he confessed. ‘Kathy’s surname was Hallows back then, but for all we know, she might have married and changed it, or Frankie could be married and have changed it herself, of course.’ He speared a fried mushroom-half, looking glum. ‘I feel bad, because I’d like to meet her again – properly, you know. Without your mum breathing down our necks, shooing her away. Because she is my daughter.’