‘No. No thank you, I’m afraid I can’t stay long.’ She tucked her hair behind her ears and the smile that flickered across her lips was one of such sweetness that Clara smiled back.

‘I’m so glad you came,’ she said.

‘When I saw you on the news, I couldn’t believe it … that it was my brother you were talking about.’ Emily shook her head in wonder. ‘When they showed his picture … seeing him again after all these years, all grown up …’ Her eyes swam, and instinctively Clara reached over and put a hand on hers. ‘I’ve missed out on most of his life. He was ten years old when I last saw him and I’ve thought about him every single day since. When I saw you, I couldn’t … I couldn’t not contact you.’

Clara was about to reply when Emily leant down and pulled something from her bag. ‘I have something to show you,’ she said, handing her a small, creased photograph.

Clara gazed at the faded picture in amazement. It was of Luke aged about four, wearing stripy pyjamas and a huge toothy grin. Behind him stood Emily, a gangly, pretty girl of around twelve, her arms wrapped tightly around her brother’s shoulders, her smile a replica of his. In the background was the living room of The Willows, its walls painted an unfamiliar green.

‘Oh my goodness,’ Clara murmured.

‘I carry it with me everywhere,’ Emily said. ‘And this one too.’ She passed her a second picture, which showed herself aged about fourteen or so and standing between a smiling, much younger-looking Rose and Oliver in the back garden of The Willows, each of them with a glass of champagne in their hands. They looked so relaxed and happy, Clara thought; such a stark contrast to how battered by grief and worry they were now. ‘How are they?’ Emily asked. ‘How are Mum and Dad?’

There was such anguish in her face that Clara felt her throat thicken with sympathy. She paused, searching for the right words. ‘They’re not good, Emily,’ she admitted. ‘Luke’s disappearance …’

Emily looked so sad that Clara couldn’t help herself any longer. ‘Emily, what happened to you? Where have you been all this time? What happened when you were eighteen?’

But it was as if the shutters slammed down in her eyes and she looked away.

Into the tense silence, Clara said miserably, ‘I’m sorry. I don’t want to push you, it’s just … your mum and dad, it would make them so happy to know that you’re OK. Can I tell them I’ve seen you, that you’re alive and well? It would—’