‘Your mother was kind enough to lay up for us this morning. Of course, she did it for three not four. Edie didn’t tell us you were coming until just before you arrived so I had to lay the extra place myself.’

Edie rolled her eyes. ‘It’s not exactly hard to put out another knife and fork, Eleanor.’

‘It’s really nice to be here, Mrs Davenport,’ I said quickly, sensing something between them.

Eleanor smiled at me as she lifted a bottle of wine from the ice bucket and topped up her glass, though I could tell that she was annoyed, and I wished Edie hadn’t mentioned the cutlery.

Max Davenport stood and excused himself quietly before walking back to the barbecue. He picked up the tongs and waved them about like a sword as he turned steaks as thick as the Bible.

‘So, Tamsyn,’ said Eleanor Davenport, dragging my attention away from Max and the barbecue. ‘Are you pleased it’s the school holidays?’

‘Oh, yes. Very. I’ve just had exams so last term was pretty hard work.’ I thought back to all the hours I’d stared blindly at my books whilst daydreaming and then the exams in which the words had swum and I’d struggled to even remember my name let alone how to long divide.

‘O levels?’

‘CSEs.’

‘CSEs?’ Eleanor placed her glass down on the table. ‘The ones you take if you aren’t bright enough to do O levels? How many did you take?’

I swallowed and a wave of hot shame swept over my body. ‘Just five.’

‘Do we have to talk about school, Eleanor? I mean, God, that’s the last thing Tamsyn and I want to think about.’

‘My apologies,’ Eleanor said. ‘I was interested, that’s all. Aren’t you always saying I need to be more interested?’

I wracked my brain to think of something to say. ‘I really like this tablecloth.’

‘The tablecloth?’ Eleanor laughed. ‘Thank you. It’s an old one we don’t need in London anymore.’

‘I’ve never eaten at a table with a cloth before. I don’t think we even own one.’

‘Really?’

‘Mum would worry about staining something so pretty.’ I fingered the cloth, which was made of fine white cotton with exquisitely embroidered daisies dotted across it. I imagined my mum lifting it up into the sky so the sun lit its whiteness and the wind caught hold of it like a ship’s sail before allowing it to float back down to the table. I saw her hands smoothing it. Saw the care she’d have taken to make sure it was centred properly, everything perfect, wanting to please Mrs Davenport. Then I heard her voice.

They’re different to us.

And she was right, she and Eleanor were as different as two people could be. Eleanor reached for the salad bowl and I studied her hands. Soft. Blemish-free. Unlike my mother’s which were blotched red and rough, unpainted nails trimmed short for practicality. Mum might have been right about her being different but she was wrong about me. Sitting at that table I didn’t feel out of place or as if I shouldn’t be there. I felt as if I belonged.