But there were no other times, no school either. An hour later, a rash appeared and Jasper went from relaxed to stricken, running with his daughter’s small body in his arms through the rain to get her into hospital. Amber knew then. She knew how serious it was, like she’d have known from the start if she’d been there when Katy had been sent home from pre-school, ill. But instead she’d been at some private doctor Jasper had recommended to look into prosthetic fingers. He’d had enough of her complaining how long it took her to renovate pieces to sell in the shop. But if she hadn’t been at that bloody appointment, if she’d seen the way Katy was from the start, maybe her maternal instincts would have sent her to the hospital sooner.

The next morning little Katy, the light of their lives, was gone for ever and with her Amber and Jasper’s marriage.

Amber crunches her good hand into a fist, feeling the tears starting to trail down her cheeks. Katy would have been light-haired like the girl, maybe a hint of the red hair Amber shared with her mother and sister. Strawberry blonde was what her mother called it the first time she’d seen Katy after Amber had given birth to her. ‘My little strawberry,’ she’d whispered, kissing her granddaughter’s soft cheek. It had been particularly hard for Rita. Amber could hear it in her voice when she’d called her from the hospital in the middle of the night. Just a few weeks away from her fourth birthday, the same age Amber had lost her fingers to frostbite. The memories must have come flooding back for Rita. All Amber could think was she wished she’d died that day, then she wouldn’t have to endure the pain of losing the light of her life all those years later. Selfish, really. But true. It was unbearable.

Still is.

Amber looks down the beach. She hates being alone with herself when she has these thoughts.

‘Come on,’ she whispers to herself as she forces herself out. ‘This hut won’t paint itself.’

As she paints over the next few hours, she tries to keep her mind on the job in hand but can’t help but notice there aren’t any customers. She’d not sold a jot the past week apart from the blanket, and her aunt and mother had done that. What was she doing wrong? She’d focused on the bestsellers, mainly the items she renovated: the small stools she’d picked up from charity shops, turned into side tables. The antique framed mirrors cleaned and spruced up. It was all on-trend: distressed look with pastels. So why were sales down this winter?