It was the type of thing my dad would probably have said to me. Edie was lucky to have her father still. To have him alive and eating apples, not drowned and buried in a coffin in the ground.

Max patted the table then stood. ‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘Enough of that nonsense. My book calls.’

‘Thank you for supper,’ I said, pleased I’d remembered it was supper not tea.

‘Not at all. Please do stay and enjoy the pool.’

I needed no persuading. The thought of having to go back to St Just and our small damp house filled me with cold dread. Everything about it was grey and unwelcoming. But here, at The Cliff House, the colours were exaggerated, the light brighter, the smells, tastes and sounds richer. Was it just because I had happy memories of my dad here and sad ones back there? Or was it more than that? Was this place possessed with some kind of magic?

I watched him walk across the terrace and through the double doors into his study, then tipped my head back to enjoy the sunshine on my face.

‘Thank fuck that’s over,’ said Edie from behind me. I turned in my seat to see her emerging from the house.

‘Your parents are really nice,’ I said.

‘Ha! Nice? What the hell are you on? Oh my God,’ she said through her laughter. ‘Tamsyn, you’re hilarious.’

Her laughter cut through me and my skin flushed. I stood, mumbling about needing to use the toilet.

‘Sure,’ she said, remnants of her amusement still lingering. ‘It’s through the living—’ She stopped herself. ‘Hang on. What am I saying? You don’t need me to tell you, do you? I forgot you’ve been here before.’

Her comment annoyed me. What if Max or Eleanor had overheard? Was she ever going to stop going on about it?

The downstairs toilet was small and white with old-fashioned silver taps and a picture of a naked woman drawn on the wall. I washed my hands and dried them on the fluffy white towel, unable to resist burying my face in it to enjoy the smell of fabric conditioner and the cotton wool softness. It was bone dry too. It struck me this was one of the differences between rich people and poor people. In our house there was nowhere to hang towels apart from a hook on the bathroom door and with no drying machine, and the fact the house was always so bloody damp, they never had time to dry properly so there was always a mustiness to them. One day I’d have fluffy white towels. Dry ones. Cupboards overflowing with them.

I walked out of the toilet and almost bumped into Eleanor Davenport. She was carrying a drink in one hand and in the other was a small brown bottle with a prescription label on it, which I presumed were pills for her headache.

‘I just used your toilet.’ I’ve no idea why I said that and felt immediately foolish.