‘Well, if you’re really, really sure,’ Faith says.

‘I am, honestly. It will be great to hear what you think of it.’

‘Mitch will love it and it’s his birthday next weekend.’

The back door clicks closed. Leon’s left; but Faith is so engrossed in what’s on the screen, she doesn’t seem to notice.

Alice gets up the booking confirmation, and is about to print it off when she notices the small print. ‘Oh for God’s sake.’

‘What?’

‘This room,’ she says. ‘It’s non-transferable.’ She looks up from the screen. ‘Sorry.’

‘No, honestly, it’s OK. In fact …’ She opens her bag, and pulls out an old till receipt, flattens it out. ‘Got a pen?’

Alice roots around in a pot on the work surface, and hands her one.

‘It’s short notice,’ she says, scribbling down the web address. ‘But I’m going to see if I can get booked in for next weekend anyway. I’m all hyped now, and it’s the perfect gift for Mitch.’

Alice can’t help thinking it’s over-generous, but Faith sounds so excited she says nothing.

‘If you’re really sure you don’t mind me taking time off?’ Faith says.

‘I don’t mind at all.’ But as Alice says the words, she knows she won’t be able to get the place out of her head.

Chapter 8

Halloween Weekend 2019

Alice

It’s Friday, the first day of the Whitby Goth Weekend.

At 8.30 a.m., Alice pulls into the long-stay car park, rain bouncing off the roof of her Mazda as though it’s taken up tap-dancing. She finds a space, and kills the engine.

It will be the first time she’s sat alone behind the counter at ‘Alice’s Sculptures in Wonderland’ since her dad died, but she’s certain it’s the right time – she can do this. She glances in the rear-view mirror at Henry sitting upright in the back, alert, ears pricked, as he looks about him. He will be with her – support her.

It’s been half an hour since Faith called, her voice full of excitement, to say she and Mitch were about to head to Flynn Hotel. And Alice had been so close to suggesting closing the shop and joining them – taking Cameron up on his offer. But today and tomorrow will be the busiest days of the year in Whitby. She can’t afford to miss sales. Yes, her dad left her a fortune and his cottage, plus his books keep paying royalties, but her sculptures are what she does for herself – her identity. She needs to grip hold of that once more with both hands.

The rain eases, and she gets out of the car, collects a ticket from the machine.

Once Henry’s out of the back, wagging his tail, she locks the car, pulls up the hood of her rain jacket, and heads into the town centre.