Angharad was always full of news about her sister, Marie, and the sandwich shop that Marie ran specifically for British holidaymakers (white sliced bread, salad cream, Dairylea, tinned ham). Will realised with a sinking heart that he would have to break the news about Alice to his mother. If she didn’t hear it from him, she’d read about it in the weekend papers when they eventually made their way to the Balearics and that would be a huge shock to her.

Angharad paused her monologue to ask: ‘What are you doing? You sound out of breath.’

‘I’m going upstairs.’

‘Oh. Are you at home?’

‘No.’

‘Where are you then?’

Will had reached the door to his room. He tucked the phone under his chin while he unlocked it.

‘Where are you, Mum?’

‘At a bar with your Auntie Marie. We’re on the Rioja. Look!’

Will went into the room and looked at his phone. His mother’s nut-brown face, bordered by huge earrings, was taking up most of the screen. Her hair, black streaked with grey, was pulled back. She was wearing her trademark red lipstick and her eyes were outlined in eyeliner, with a dramatic wing painted onto each lid. Her décolletage was flat and deep beneath a flouncily trimmed scarlet blouse and she was sporting a good amount of colourful paste jewellery. Behind her, the sun was setting over a sea that bore no similarity at all to the estuary beyond Severn Sands; this was a glamorous harbour where pristine white yachts bobbed.

‘Where are you?’ his mother asked again, trying to peer around him. Will rotated the phone to show her the room. The floral wallpaper, the single bed, the laptop plugged into the socket to charge.

‘Oh!’ said Angharad. Then: ‘Ohhh!’ and then, in a stage whisper: ‘Are you in some woman’s boudoir?’

‘No!’ Will said, and he laughed at the thought that he might be in a relationship with anyone who had a bedroom that could be described as a boudoir. ‘I’m in a guesthouse in Severn Sands.’

‘Not Bradshaws!’

‘Yes.’

‘What are you doing there? Have they forgiven you for breaking Daisy’s heart yet? I’m surprised they let you over the threshold.’

‘Mrs Bradshaw’s passed on and… I had to come back, Mum. Something’s happened.’

‘That sounds ominous.’

‘There’s something I need to tell you?’

‘Oh God, you’re not pregnant, are you?’

Cackles of laughter rang out of the phone. Angharad’s sister, Marie, appeared on the screen, her head pressed against Angharad’s. Marie’s hair was bleached blonde, permed. False eyelashes cast spidery shadows on her cheeks. In the background, a mixture of tourists and Spaniards walked along the promenade, past a revolving rack of postcards, a display of wicker tourist tat. Marie waved to Will with her fingers, nails like talons.

‘Mum, listen, it’s important.’

‘OK, sorry, Will. Sorry. What?’