But some things hadn’t changed. Eliza still had that lively, alert expression. And those spots of red on her cheeks. Olivia had always loved how easily Eliza blushed. She knew Jeannie had loved it too.

Jeannie. There at the centre of the photo. Petite, with that mop of black curly hair, the wide, cheeky smile, the dimple. Mischievous in looks and in personality. Naughty. Bold. So many words always came to mind when Olivia thought of her friend. Wild. Quick-witted. Loyal. Fun. Defiant. Reckless.

Troubled.

She and Maxie hadn’t realised until too late how troubled she was.

More than thirteen years had passed since that awful night, yet Olivia still often felt the punch of grief. The sadness. The guilt, most of all. She’d relived it so many times: Eliza’s panicked phone call from Australia, her voice unrecognisable, babbling, talking about the bath, the water, her mother, how she’d tried to ring Maxie, she wasn’t answering . . . It had taken a few moments to make sense of what she was saying. Once she had, Olivia had needed to shout at her, to order her to hang up quickly, to phone for an ambulance, quickly, now, Eliza, now!

The hours following had been like a nightmare. Olivia could still recall the flight she’d taken that same day, cursing the distance between Scotland and Australia, wishing she could be there instantly, beside Eliza in that shabby house. Wishing she’d somehow been able to protect her goddaughter from what she’d seen in that bathroom, all she now had to go through. Thank God Maxie had still been in Auckland, able to get to her within hours, to stay close until Olivia’s arrival. In the days that followed, the two of them had so often wanted to fold themselves around Eliza, to shield her from more hurt, even as they grieved for Jeannie themselves.

They’d always taken their role as godmothers seriously. Jeannie had made sure of it.

‘I don’t want two wishy-washy godmothers,’ she had said that afternoon in the country hospital when Eliza was only a day old. ‘No dolls. No pink dresses. Just lots of adventures. Lots of spoiling. The pair of you like two mighty warriors protecting her at every step.’

They’d laughed, imagining themselves in suits of armour, clanking bodyguards shadowing a little girl to the playground. But they agreed to everything Jeannie asked. They took turns holding her, amazed at how tiny she was, how lovely, how cross. Olivia smiled now at the memory. Baby Eliza’s constant frowns had made them laugh. It was a deceptive start. As she grew older, she turned into the sweetest of children. So clever. So watchful, too, of Jeannie and her moods especially.

Olivia felt a flash of guilt again. Eliza should have had a much happier childhood. Known nothing but security, safety. Not the constant moves Jeannie insisted on, the upheaval of new houses and schools, trying to cope with her mother’s mood swings. Her temper. Her drinking.

If only Olivia and Maxie had known how bad things were. But they’d been living in other states, then countries. Caught up with their own careers and lives. They’d always stayed in touch with Jeannie, of course. Sent Eliza birthday and Christmas presents, receiving sweet handwritten thankyou cards in return. Their relationship might have stayed like that, fond but distant, if Jeannie hadn’t contacted them out of the blue the year Eliza was eleven, begging them to come to her school concert.