Strapped into her window seat, the heat haze shimmering on the runway, Esther kept her phone on till the last possible moment, reading and re-reading Dylan’s message. True to his word, all her subsequent efforts to make contact had been stonewalled. His phone sounded dead, without even the option to leave voicemail. Every one of her laboriously composed WhatsApp messages, begging for him to come home, to communicate, packed with assurances about no recriminations and a way forward being found, still sported the single grey tick indicating they hadn’t even been delivered. Efforts to cling to the comforts offered by both Viv and Brian kept ricocheting round her head through a fog of clammy panic. Yes, Dylan was eighteen; but to call a child ‘adult’ just because of a birthday struck her as more and more absurd. Dylan’s main strengths were wild hopes and bucketloads of kindness. To think of this beloved, vulnerable soul pitting himself against the world made Esther tremble. As did her fury at Lucas, for bringing the catastrophe into being, no doubt thanks to his usual brute tactics – ready always with the stick and forgetting the bloody carrot – and then compounding everything by keeping the news to himself for half a day. Worse than anything, however, was thinking of what Dylan was going through, fighting down his doubts and sadness, the sheer terror of failure that had to have driven him away.

The young man with tattooed arms in the seat next to her was giving her looks. She had been saying Dylan’s name under her breath, Esther realised, hurriedly putting the phone in her bag and closing her eyes. She kept them closed as the plane accelerated, pressing her back into her seat. Her eyes felt gritty, but there was no question of sleep. She had managed only fitful dozes through the night, eventually clambering into bed after one o’ clock, once she had bought her new ticket and packed her bags. The sun had brought her fully awake at six. After showering and dressing, she had torn a page out of the ‘Write Your Life!’ journal – brought out of consideration for Viv, and still containing nothing beyond the original scornful birthday greeting to herself and a to-pack list for the holiday – in order to write a proper apology for their awful argument.

She had got as far as

Dearest Viv, I was an ungrateful cow and you are amazing…

when a rap on the door produced Viv herself, dressed in running gear.

‘Look, Viv—’

‘No, you look. It’s all done with. I didn’t mean to upset you.’