Each time they’d gazed at the postcard together, Eliza and her mother had concocted a story about it. The girls were sisters, they’d decided. Close in age. Their parents were wealthy. Every summer, they invited friends to their mansion. At dusk on the first day, the two sisters – Lily? Rose? – would be in charge of lighting the lanterns before everyone went for a long garden walk, listening to birds calling as the light faded. Afterwards, a ball, an orchestra, everyone in gowns and suits, waiters with trays.

Outside, the Australian sun would be blasting their scrubby backyard, the concrete, the clothes line. It wouldn’t matter. In those moments, Eliza and her mother would be far away, inside the painting.

Eliza had to shut her eyes tight and will the tears not to come again. In her pocket, her phone pinged. She ignored it. It pinged again. She had to check. Sullivan, playing a word. No message this time.

She turned off her phone. All around her, people were walking in, taking out their phones, photographing one or two paintings without even looking at them properly, then walking out again.

She stayed for another fifteen minutes, gazing at the painting, thinking about her mother.

On the way out, she walked through the gift shop. It was as crowded as the galleries themselves, people browsing through items featuring the Tate’s paintings. Not only books, prints and postcards. Umbrellas, tote bags, cups, scarves. An entire section was devoted to Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose.

‘I suppose we have to share it with other people,’ she imagined her mother saying. ‘But you and I both know it really belongs to us.’

Eliza bought one of the postcards and tucked it into her bag.

Chapter Twenty-two

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

It was nearly six p.m. in Edinburgh. Olivia was on her way back to the Montgomery after an afternoon with Edgar. She’d run into roadworks. She called Lawrence to check all was fine.

‘Two minor issues with guests, both sorted,’ he said.

‘And Celine?’

‘Let’s just say, the sooner Eliza’s back from London, the better.’

Olivia wanted to swear. Not only at the roadworks. Or her fellow drivers, beeping their horns impatiently around her. She wanted to shout at Celine, order her to get out. Shout at Alex to stop stealing. At Rory to be more interested in the hotel. Instead, she breathed deeply. ‘Thanks, Lawrence.’

She knew why her mood felt fragile. It had been a difficult visit with Edgar. More difficult than usual.

‘How is he today, Lyn?’ she’d asked the head nurse as she came in.

‘No change, Olivia.’

How she longed for a different answer one day. ‘He’s back to his old self.’ Or even, ‘He’s different.’ Something new, something better than this awful limbo.

‘Hello, darling.’ She went across, sat down beside him and took his hand.