That her mum was clearly in determinedly buoyant form, full of affection and energy, should have helped, but also didn’t. From the welcome glass of prosecco, through their joint mini-pedicures, side by side in big leather chairs, and then over lunch, sitting on stools in the health bar with delicious bowls of salad and freshly squeezed juices, she had bombarded Lily with conversation. Probing for answers on all the obvious subjects – Heidi and her father especially – that Lily felt most disinclined to discuss; and then, when sensing reticence, providing ebullient reports on all the things that had been going on in London. Lots of things, by the sound of it. Things that made Lily in danger of feeling she was listening to a stranger. The dead neighbour. The dead neighbour’s cat. The nephew. The garden shed that looked as if someone had used it, but which now, thanks to her mother’s efforts, sat proud and exposed and up to storing a range of new garden tools. The nice neighbours, who had a friend, busy that very minute installing front and back CCTV to cover both properties, for peace of mind – though they didn’t want payment. And, between every subject, every lively report, the subject of her brother popped up, a recurring pulse. Dylan, Dylan, Dylan. Whether he was all right. When he might come home. Whether he was happy. Whether he was sad. All of it proving, as if Lily needed it, her younger sibling’s unfailing capacity to dominate the family agenda, no matter whether he was messing up away from home or under their noses.

Lily wasn’t accustomed to feeling mean. She loved her little brother and his hopelessness, but it had been easier during the days when he would listen to her. Days long gone. But in current circumstances, even trying to explain that to her mother was impossible. As impossible as trying to find a way of saying that she didn’t mind about Heidi – as a person or a prospective new life-partner for her father. Every subject seemed to lead towards potential explosions, making them all off-limits. So much so that, during the manicures that followed their lunch, Lily had resorted to talking in depth about her thesis instead. She could see her mum doing her best to follow, a slight glaze in her eyes, but at least it was a safe topic. Work – her brain – was the one thing that had never let her down. It was always there – a world she could escape into, which provided the opportunity to make things add up, to find right answers – instead of grappling with the increasing muddle of real life, soothed her as nothing else. Realising, at some point during her mid-teens, that her dad clearly found a similar sort of solace in his own field of study had been both a revelation and a bond – one that she had once imagined was unbreakable.