She double-checked the backseat to make sure she hadn’t left anything behind before closing the door. The driver heaved her bag onto the footpath and grunted, “There you go.”

He was rewarded with a million-watt Chloe Sims smile, which seemed to disarm him instantly. “Have a good flight,” he chirruped.

She pulled the handle up with a snap and strode towards the terminal, mentally rehearsing her get-an-upgrade strategy. One in three times it worked, mostly because of her frequent-flier status. She hoped this would be one of those times, because the thought of all those hours in economy did nothing to lift her mood. An upgrade would, though.

*

Twenty-nine hours she’d been in transit, counting the layover in Dubai, immigration at Heathrow, and the bus ride to Oxford—and she’d been unlucky with the upgrade. But the worst part of the journey was waiting at the open-air bus station in the freezing cold hoping she’d recognise Lucy’s dad from a photo on Facebook.

According to the glary orange digits of the overhead clock, the bus had only dropped her off fifteen minutes ago, but fifteen minutes standing in the cold felt like years. Where was Mr Browning?

She shoved her hands deeper into the pockets of her Kathmandu puffer jacket. Her top half was warm, but the damp icy wind was biting through her jeans and her toes were so cold, they’d gone numb. She may not have packed appropriately for winter in the English countryside.

And she realised that her face hurt. Surely, that’s not normal? People can’t go about their everyday lives with their faces hurting every time they step outside.

“Chloe?” she heard behind her.

She spun on her heels, so relieved to see the friendly face of her friend’s dad that she uncharacteristically blurted, “You’re here,” before throwing herself into the poor man’s arms.

He patted her stiffly on the back and cleared his throat. “Right then, shall we go?” Chloe stepped back and nodded like a four-year-old who’d been asked if she wanted a pony ride. “Shall I get your case for you?” He indicated her bag and before waiting for an answer, took the handle and with a smile that drew his lips taut across his face, said, “This way.”

Chloe followed, more excited to get into a car than she could ever remember being.

*

“Here you are, love,” said Mrs Browning as she opened the door to a tiny upstairs bedroom. “This was our Lucy’s room before she moved away.” She needn’t have added the last part, because the room had Lucy stamped all over it.

The single bed, which was pushed against the wall, had a bright pink doona cover and about a thousand throw pillows in various shades of pink—Lucy’s signature colour until Chloe and Jules had finally talked her out of it, at age twenty. Not in time, it seemed, to talk her out of pink curtains, a fluffy pink rug, and a hot-pink light fitting.

On the wall opposite the bed was a massive array of framed photographs of Lucy, ranging from infancy to early adulthood. Chloe scanned her eyes over the many faces of Lucy, seeing the dramatic transformation she’d had in her early teens.