She used to hold his hand then, back in the days when they were a family, before Denise died, when her father used to be open and friendly. She used to help him with the mechanics of the funfair. They were Chief Mechanic and Oily Rag. When they came in, filthy dirty, Denise used to shake her head and say: ‘John, this is no way to bring up your daughter!’ and John said: ‘It’s the best way to bring her up!’ and then Denise would start asking again if they could move away, live somewhere else and there’d be a half-hearted argument.

Marnie and her father had been thick as thieves. She used to be proud of being her daddy’s girl, that big, strong, handsome man who everyone respected. She never thought that maybe her mother felt left out. It wasn’t as if she was deliberately excluded. She could have come over to the holiday park any time she liked. She could have had a free ice cream or can of pop and sat on one of the benches in the gardens and enjoyed the fun. She could have made friends. But she never tried. She never made any effort.

It wasn’t that she didn’t care for John. They were two very different people: Denise, thoughtful, quiet, bookish; John, a practical man who spoke his mind. Denise had once told Marnie that she had fallen in love with John the first time she saw him.

‘He was like a film star,’ she’d said, ‘or a gypsy prince!’… something like that. Marnie had a hazy recollection of Denise explaining how John had come riding into town on his motorbike (which he later swapped for the van) and, thrillingly, carried her off into the sunset. ‘He promised to save me,’ she’d said. ‘He’d promised to be my Happy Ever After.’

Had she actually said those words, or had Marnie added them to the story herself? She couldn’t be sure. Thinking back, it seemed unlikely Denise would have been so whimsical. And anyway, the words didn’t make any sense. Save her? From what?

29

Will sat in one of the seafront shelters, rested his wrists on his thighs, and turned the phone in his hand.

Another text had come from Saoirse:

Last chance, Will. Call me or I’m leaving.

Will had had texts like this before, from different women. He’d had other last chances and he’d let them go. It was easier than enduring the exhausting process of tortuous reconciliations that inevitably collapsed into bitterness and resentment and blame after a few days, or weeks, or months.