I didn’t want to think about her parents’ grief; about the moment they found out she was dead. About the sobbing eulogies in the church from her friends and the sad procession through the churchyard to the grave. I didn’t want to think about them returning to this very house after burying their only child; fortifying themselves with sherry as they went through the motions of hospitality. I didn’t want to picture them sitting, locked numbly in their grief in this kitchen, untouched cups of tea on the table, listening to the depth of the silence marked only by the relentless tick of the grandfather clock I’d inherited. They’d tolerated it only for a few weeks before packing their bags and moving somewhere warm, as if a bit of sunshine could erase the hole she’d left in their lives. They’d never come back.

Rohan didn’t know the story. If he did, he’d never have agreed to buy the house.

‘It was all very sad,’ I said. ‘But you know. Life moves on.’ I glugged another mouthful of wine. ‘So. How was Kent?’

‘Ah, the old stomping ground.’ Grace nodded. ‘Yeah. Good. It got me reminiscing about the past,’ she said.

I focused on the ticking of the clock, but even that seemed to slow down. Tick… tick… tick. ‘You remember I was born down there?’ She paused, her head tilted as she smiled sideways at me. ‘You remember the picture we found? With us both in it? Groombridge, wasn’t it?’

I nodded. She’d told me about her idyllic summers in the country. Strawberry-picking, her mouth stained with the juices of stolen fruits. Flying her kite in the meadow. Running errands in the village. Horse-riding. Camps built in the woods. Bonfires. Wellies up to her knees and a fishing net to catch minnows in the stream. An idyllic childhood. My hand went to my neck.