In the photo, Eliza was standing in front, beaming, her long black hair in two plaits, dark against her white angel costume. Right behind, her arms wrapped around Eliza, was her mother, smiling too. They were almost the same height. To Eliza’s left, Maxie; to her right, Olivia. They were like two guardian angels.

Her godmothers stayed for three nights. Eliza went to bed each evening to the sound of the three of them talking and laughing, of corks regularly being taken out of bottles. It felt different to Eliza, much better, to hear the cork noise when there were others with her mother.

At some stage over that weekend, the godmothers’ holiday plan was hatched.

‘We made a solemn promise about it,’ her mum told her the morning they left. ‘I wanted to seal it in blood but we shook hands instead.’

Every year from now on, she explained, Maxie and Olivia would take Eliza away for a week or so each. It would mean she’d have two holidays a year. She’d get to know her godmothers, and they’d get to know her. It would also give her mum a break.

‘Not that I need a break from you, sweetpea. But they said I was being selfish keeping you to myself.’

The first year, both holidays were in Australia. Maxie still lived in Sydney. Olivia was based in Scotland but had come back to see her family. But as the years went by, with Maxie moving to the UK for her work too, the destinations became more exotic and interesting. By the time Eliza was seventeen, she’d visited Edinburgh, London, Paris, Singapore, Hong Kong and Hanoi.

Eliza never knew beforehand where she was going. A month before each holiday, she’d receive a letter or, in later years, an email, telling her the departure date and what to pack. On the chosen day, her mum would drive her to the airport or train station. Only then would she learn the destination. Her mum would kiss her goodbye and stay waving for as long as she could see her. When Eliza came home, full of stories, her mum was always waiting for her, eager to hear everything, see photos, exclaim with delight over the gifts Eliza would bring back for her.

The year she was seventeen, she’d been staying with Maxie in New Zealand. It had been a magical, action-packed week, visiting glaciers, lakes and movie sets. She’d rung her mum from their hotel the night before she flew home, as always, to confirm her arrival time.

‘Thank God. I’m missing you desperately,’ her mum said from their small house in Heathcote, a town one hundred kilometres north of Melbourne. ‘Tell the pilot to put his or her foot down. I want all speed records broken.’

‘I’ve got so much to tell you. Today we went to —’

‘No, no, don’t tell me. I want to hear it face-to-face. Every single juicy detail. Don’t forget anything.’

Her mum sent her an email the next morning too, written in their favourite list form.