“Mum, Dad, this is Natalie.” He stepped aside so she could walk into the room. The woman standing before her was short; she wore a loose patterned dress with an apron tied around her middle and was inspecting Natalie with a sharp gaze.

Natalie held out her hand. “Hello, Mrs King.”

Olive gave her hand a quick shake. “I’m sorry about my son keeping you out so late. You must be hungry. Everything’s ready. Do sit down.”

Natalie followed Milt further in to the huge kitchen. Cupboards ran along two and a half of its walls, punctuated by ovens and a huge fridge with a matching freezer. In the middle was a large solid-wood table and the man who’d been sitting at the end of it rose to his feet. This was where Milt had got his height from. His father smiled a genuine welcome.

“Hello, Natalie,” he said.

“Hello, Mr King.” She shook the hand he held out. It was rougher than Milt’s but his grip was gentle like the smile on his lips.

“Please call me Clem,” he said and from then on she had.

Clem offered her a seat, asked how she’d enjoyed her day and made her feel at home. She wasn’t quite so comfortable under Olive’s appraising eye. Her words of welcome didn’t match the sharp, assessing look she kept directing at Natalie, so different to the benevolent gaze she bestowed on her son – a cross between adoration and incredulity, as if she couldn’t quite believe she’d produced such a strong, good-looking offspring.

The evening was relaxing enough. Natalie shared a long-neck beer with Clem and Milt. Olive stuck to sherry. The roast had been dry and the vegetables overcooked. Natalie had assumed it was because they were late but came to discover that was how Olive cooked every roast. They’d eaten cheesecake that had a crumbling base and a gluggy filling. When Natalie had been invited again the following week she took a cheesecake she’d made herself. Clem had loved it. Cheesecakes had become her trademark dessert and even though they’d dropped in and out of fashion over the years, she often made an old favourite or searched out a new recipe to try.

Now she ran her finger down the glossy page she had cut from a magazine and glued onto the blank page before Chapter Three in the book. It was a recipe for New York–style baked cheesecake with berry coulis. She hadn’t made it for years and yet tonight she’d whipped it up without even looking at the recipe.

“Nat?”

She jumped up from the bed.

Milt’s footsteps thudded up the passage. Even though he would be bootless and there was a carpet runner over the wooden floorboards, he still couldn’t manage to walk quietly. Never had been able to.

She shoved the book under her pillow as he pushed open the door.