Upstairs, I pull a black tunic on over my jeans, knotting a pale scarf over it, then brush my hair and touch up my makeup. The spritz of perfume is defiant, reflecting my mood – it’s one I know Andrew doesn’t like. As I go downstairs, I hear there’s music coming from the sitting room. I push the door open wide enough to see Niamh slumped on the sofa and Hollie sprawled on the rug in front of the fire. Neither of them looks up.

‘We’re just going out, girls. We won’t be late.’ My voice is intentionally light, painting the picture that Andrew and I are off on a cosy evening out, but I suspect it doesn’t fool anyone.

Niamh turns briefly, hair the colour of flax falling across her face. ‘OK, Mum.’ Her face is expressionless, her eyes blank, mirroring mine. Not for the first time I berate myself for not being the kind of mother who can make everything right in her world with a hug, a laugh, a joke …

I look at Hollie. ‘Are you staying, Hollie?’

Hollie Hampton lives at the other end of the village from us. At sixteen, she’s two years older than Niamh, but they’re kindred spirits. Riveted to the television, Hollie nods imperceptibly, pulling her long dark hair over one of her thin shoulders. Elfin-faced, with pale skin, in the frayed jeans under the silver dress she’s wearing, she’s diaphanous.

‘There are snacks in the cupboard if you’re hungry,’ I remind them. ‘See you later, girls.’

Pushing the door closed behind me, I go to find Andrew. Already wearing his coat, he barely glances at me as I pull on a jacket and knitted hat.

‘Ready?’ His tone is brusque, but unless there’s anyone around to notice, Andrew is never affectionate towards me.

*

We walk to the pub in silence, the air damp, the drops of rain from earlier yet to turn into anything more.

For some reason, Hollie is on my mind. Her father, James, is a writer, her stepmother, Stephanie, a hairdresser – I’ve been to her salon in the next village once or twice. Over the last couple of years, Hollie’s seemed increasingly troubled. I’ve seen it when she appears at the door, uninvited, looking as though she has nowhere else to go; sometimes it’s as if her mind is far away, while other days emotions race across her face like storm clouds scudding across the sky.

Hands in my pockets, I hurry through the darkness, trying to keep up with Andrew’s brisk, staccato steps. Like everything about him, they’re deliberate, purposeful. I wonder if he’s thinking of her. Fighting the urge to turn around and go home, I remind myself, this could be my opportunity to find out who she is.

When Andrew speaks, he takes me by surprise. ‘We should plan a holiday, Elise.’