Di began pushing the chicken toward other people. Vicky took a whole leg and bit straight into it. She ate ravenously whenever they came here. Maybe it was a habit from childhood, the three sisters fighting over food at the dinner table. Di had done the cooking from a young age because their mum had rarely been up to it. Vicky still became emotional if she had to talk about the last meal they’d eaten together before they’d been placed with different foster families. She couldn’t even look at macaroni and cheese—as Chris had found out on their third date when he’d made it for her, oblivious to its significance, and had seen behind her tough façade for the first time.

He watched her now, chicken grease glistening on her lips, and felt a pang of affection. Maybe she sensed it because she actually smiled at him, then wiped her mouth with a napkin and laughed at her own table manners.

The moment was broken when Jane said, “So what’s she like, Chris?”

“Who?”

“The girl! Freya. You must’ve got to know her a bit, teaching her to drive?”

He trailed a finger in his cold gravy. “Not really. There isn’t much chitchat during a lesson. I’m generally just trying to keep us both . . .” He caught himself before he said alive, and an uneasy silence fell.

“Her parents must be worried sick,” Jane said.

“Well, maybe they should’ve taken better care of her.” This was Di, suddenly indignant, aggravating Chris again, even though part of him wanted to agree.

“That’s harsh, Di,” Vicky said. “Horrible things can happen to anyone.”

There was another silence, a twang of tension, and Chris sensed their history swirling between them, sensed that they were half talking about their own parents now, and their different levels of forgiveness.

It was Di’s husband, Gav, who defused things, scooping up plates and blathering about pudding. The man couldn’t cope with serious conversation for longer than a few seconds. Chris was grateful to him tonight, though. The atmosphere adjusted with the clatter of crockery and a discussion about treacle sponge cake. He felt Vicky’s eyes on him, but when he glanced up she wasn’t looking at him at all: She was twisted away, talking to Jane.

—

Di never let anyone help her clear up after lunch. Chris hated the martyred air with which she retreated into the kitchen, washing every dish and putting them all away, loudly urging her guests to relax. The other sisters thought nothing of it: This had always been Di’s role, Chief Grown-Up, and now that she had the biggest house it seemed even more entrenched.