His face wasn’t angry, just a mixture of surprise and hurt. She felt like she’d kicked a kitten. But it was for the best. He had to know now. She had to set the ground rules for their precipitated married life because there was no way she was going to let her future son or daughter stumble across a dusty scrapbook of her unfulfilled dreams stashed under the bed in twenty years’ time.

JULY 2016 Montreux, Switzerland

JESS

<From: [email protected]>

Dear Mr Buchs,

I would rather not say why I need to talk to Brigitte Mela. It’s a personal matter. But I would be very grateful if you could give me her contact details, if you have them.

Jorge’s kept his word – he hasn’t told Julia and Michel about my transgressions, so I still have a job. We’ve exchanged several texts over the past week, his tone thawing a little with each one, so I’m feeling – to my relief – forgiven. And though I hardly know him, it’s nice to have this person checking up on me. It’s comforting to know that someone here knows my sorry tale and seems to care enough to check I’m okay, even if it is only to make sure I’m not going to take down the Chevalleys with me when I crash and burn.

I haven’t heard back from Daniel Buchs since my email and the waiting is torture. I debate emailing him again, but I don’t want to scare him off. Perhaps he’s just busy.

On Tuesday I take Léa and Luca to a water park at Le Bouveret. On Thursday we drive to Leysin and go summer tobogganing, screaming all the way down. On Friday we take the train up the Rochers-de-Naye mountain to see the marmots. The kids watch in delight as the furry brown animals poke their whiskers out of the burrow and call to each other in a distinct, bird-like chirp. But I’m more fascinated by the view up there – a glorious panorama over what feels like the whole of Lake Geneva, framed by mountains stretching into the far distance. Little black choughs sweep overhead, playing on the thermals.

What would it have been like to have grown up here, with all this on the doorstep? Would it have been better than growing up in South London? Instead of fresh Swiss air and weekends hiking, I had Sunday strolls in Greenwich Park followed by a pub roast. I had the thrill of the city a tube ride away, school trips to exhibitions, Saturdays gawping at dinosaurs in the Natural History Museum with Dad, musicals with Mum and Maggie, gigs at Brixton Academy with friends, bargain hunting in Spitalfields, curries on Brick Lane.

So different, I presume, to the youth the other daughter had – my parents’ real child.