“How about I bring you a cup of tea outside?” Ava suggested.

“The politics of tea,” said Finn. “Important stuff. Come on Ava, let’s live a little. Fraternise away. What’s the worst that can happen?”

“Oh, well… here.” With sudden decision, Ava unfolded a deck chair and offered it to Alicia. “Sit down and I’ll get the biscuit tin.”

When she left two hours later, aware that she was now officially late for lunch, Alicia glanced longingly at the beach hut. The paint was just a shell, a millimetre-thick coat that could surely be peeled away. They’d take their stuff with them. They would be here, and then they’d be gone, but the beach hut would remain. Then it would be all hers again, smooth and white and empty, and she could come down with a sleeping bag and lie on the tiny veranda and gaze up through thick blackness at the cold white winter stars.

Chapter Five: Now

She was suddenly so tall, Donald thought, watching Alicia’s long hair swinging as she padded around the kitchen. Yesterday, he’d filled sippy-cups and coaxed Rice Krispies into her round, smiling face. Today, she poured Cheerios and coffee in silence and perched at the breakfast-bar with her back to him, as if the process of leaving had already begun and all that remained were the formalities. Another blink and she’d be gone altogether.

“What are you doing today?” Annoying question but he couldn’t stop it. “If you need a lift, I’m going to the Cash and Carry.”

“No, thanks.”

“I’m not going for a bit. You’ve got time to get ready.”

“No, I’m fine. Thanks.”

“Have you got other stuff planned?”

“Dad,” said Alicia, oozing patience, “I’ve just woken up, okay? I haven’t finished my coffee yet.”

Wasn’t that supposed to be his line? Mornings used to begin with Alicia assaulting him with a bright relentless torrent of words, while he stumbled round the kitchen in a caffeine-hungry daze. Now she was the one who sat on the stool and buried her nose in her coffee mug while he hovered around her, desperate for a reaction – any reaction – even a negative one.

“Sorry, love.” He risked a quick stroke of her hair. “You know, you’re growing up so fast. I can’t get used to it.” Silence. “So you’ll be in most of the morning?”

“I don’t know.”

“Have you got homework?”

“It’s not due ’till Tuesday.”

“So you have got some?”

“Dad! Stop fussing!”

“This is an important year.”

“I know that! They’re my exams, okay?”

“Well, you’re my daughter, okay?” (Was she refusing to answer because she was struggling? Or was it just a teenage reflex?) “If I hear from your teachers that you’re behind… ” (He hadn’t meant to start a fight. How had they ended up here?)

“Dad, for God’s sake! I’ve done my homework! I’m getting good grades! I’m not pregnant! What more do you want?” She slipped off the breakfast-stool, her mug still clutched in her hand.