I thought of Fergus, how gentle, in waiting, he had been with Fleur, because he loved her so completely and selflessly. I saw how close they had become, living their lives so absolutely together with all its tragedy and joys.

I wanted that. I wanted that with Jack. I was now so sure. My life lay with him and I must ring and tell him this. It felt like my first really considered act. I was a grown woman. I was thirty-three years old, much older than Fleur had been in her life with my father.

I would always love the memory of my dad, for it was my memory, a large, beautiful man who made us squeal with laughter. A man who never grew old and tetchy. A big solid rock of a man who brought happiness wherever we went. But he was also the same man who, knowing what he was, married a young dancer, let her turn her back on her talent, for him, when he must have known the danger of it. He knew, he knew how much she absolutely worshipped him. He broke her heart, the father I loved. He broke my mother’s heart and she never used this as an excuse, not to anyone. She wanted me to keep the lovely dad of my childhood and in doing so nearly broke Fergus’s heart too; having to watch me punish her day in, day out.

I remembered how hard Gran had been on her. Laura had considered Fleur weak and feckless. I wondered if Grandpa had suspected. He was always so close and protective of Fleur.

I walk out into a night that is so warm that the air is like velvet on my bare arms. The sun has left scarlet wavy lines. Dark cigar-shaped clouds tinged with gold hang above a sea that moves imperceptibly from here, small glints lighting the waves.

I stand, holding the rail of the balcony, aware of my hands on the wood, of the scents coming in on the night. Blossom, spices, faint sewerage; Chinese music and high sing-song voices. The ghosts of my father and Saffie seem to hover in the dry rustling of the palm trees.

But what I am really thinking of is the extraordinary courage of my mother. Love and loyalty to David lasted long after his death. I know, too late, it is possible to love two people in quite different ways. One love does not negate the other, but is as much a part of it as Fergus was of Dad’s life as well as Fleur’s.

I am past tears though not past sorrow. I cannot change my mother’s life, but I can change the defiant passage of my own. Each time my child moves inside me I feel closer to understanding Fleur. I cannot marshal my thoughts or understand my feelings in a matter of hours and I know that what I feel now will change into something else. But it must be something that I am able to accept and live with.