The worst room, a smallish one at the end of the corridor, with a view over the dilapidated garden shed and an unkempt section of the back garden, will be Camilla’s.

I help Louise unpack. I’ve never spent quite this much time alone with her (without the inevitable distractions of home life), and it’s strangely disconcerting in a I’m-not-sure-how-to-make-conversation kind of way. I desperately want her to feel welcome. She’s neat, likes her things just so. Like her father. I suggest we head downstairs where she can help unpack the groceries in the kitchen.

Later, Stuart takes them out for a walk to explore while I have a doze on the sofa. I wake up with a start, dripping with sweat and utterly disoriented. When everyone returns, their faces red asking for snacks and drinks and full of questions about what they’re going to do next, Stuart takes one look at me, makes me some tea and orders me to go and lie on the bed upstairs.

Listening to the muffled sounds of excited chatter beneath me, I plan what I’m going to say to Camilla. Spending time with Louise has renewed my resolve. Before too long, she does deserve to know the truth about who her father was.

I opt out of most activities, leaving Stuart to get on with it. Louise is a delight; she’s slotted in with us as though she belongs. I sit in cafés and read. It’s bliss.

As he’s preparing dinner on our final evening before Camilla arrives, I take a cool shower. Stepping out into the bedroom, it strikes me that I can’t imagine Greg living here, even though he comes across as quite a loner. Camilla aside, I’ve never heard him mention a special anyone, apart from moving to our village a while ago “for love,” as he described it. Dressed in a loose tracksuit, I wander around all the rooms. In Camilla’s, there is a writing desk in the corner. I open the drawers. They are empty, as is the wardrobe.

Downstairs, I make myself a chamomile tea.

“Smells nice,” I say to Stuart, indicating the pasta sauce simmering on the gas stove. “I’ll lay the table.”

Still unfamiliar with the location of everything (there’s an abundance of crockery, place mats, glasses and just stuff, presumably from the B&B days), I open most drawers and cupboards. One is crammed full of paperwork. I try to shut it again, but it jams. I pull out the top layers and retry. It works, but I drop the pile. They fan out on the kitchen tiles.

“I’ll get them,” Stuart says.

As he does so, dumping them on the table, a bold font catches my eye. As I read, I hear Stuart say, “Fancy a small wine?”

I stop reading and smile. He’s been great company this week. Perhaps he’s not as bad as I’ve feared lately. “I’ll have a spritzer with dinner.”

I glance back down and continue reading an invoice for a photography course. The name of the company is familiar, and it eventually dawns on me why. It’s the same course Nina took. I remember seeing it when I sorted out her files.