‘What do you suggest, Jen? They’re bigger than me, bigger than both of us: we can’t physically prevent them from leaving the villa. They’re almost adults; we need to start treating them accordingly. We can’t track them, follow them around twenty-four hours a day.’

‘Maybe not. But we can do a damn sight more than just talk.’

She slammed the door on her way out.

Chapter 21

21

Sunday night was our night, when we would leave the children and men at the villa and have a women-only meal. Just the four of us, a chance to catch up without interruption, to talk to each other properly, enjoying good food and wine for a few hours. Knowing what I did, there was nothing I wanted to do less – but there was no way to get out of it.

I put on my newest dress and sat at the dressing table, brushing the knots out of my hair on autopilot. Brushing, brushing, brushing. I didn’t recognise the washed-out reflection that stared back at me: dark shadows beneath my eyes that I had done my best to disguise with concealer, pale skin that seemed untouched by a full day of Mediterranean sunshine.

A full day. Twenty-four hours since I had found out about Sean’s lies, here in this bedroom. The weight of that knowledge lay heavy on my chest, like a kind of grief. As if I was grieving for my marriage, for what we had already lost – and perhaps would never be able to regain. Grief for me and Sean, for the years we had spent together, for what we had once been together and what we had been reduced to. Grief, too, for one of the closest friendships I had ever had, because I couldn’t shake the feeling that Rowan was the one trying to take my place in Sean’s heart. Had perhaps already taken my place.

And now Lucy. Watching her grow up into a smart, wonderful young woman had been one of the greatest joys of my life. But the way she had talked last night, her tears on my shoulder, the way she had looked when we found her and the boys at the gorge, it was as if there were two people inside her now, fighting for the upper hand: the original Lucy, my sweet, funny, optimistic daughter, and this new person, this distant, argumentative young woman who kept secrets from me, who wouldn’t let me in any more. I knew, in an abstract, scientific way, that teenagers were like that, it was how their brains were wired, but seeing it up close left me feeling foolish and inadequate. She had started keeping secrets from me, secrets that forced a wedge between us.

A realisation struck me as these two trains of thought collided. I put the hairbrush down on the dressing table.