His discomfort was so overt it was funny. Even I sensed it.

“If what, Dad?”

“If I brought Zoë?”

“Zoë.” My mind was a blank. “Zoë as in Zoë Stefanidis? From your office?”

“Mmm.”

“No, I don’t mind, but why . . . ?”

“Just . . .”

“You mean, you and she . . . ?”

“Sort of. Yes.”

I hadn’t met Zoë Stefanidis often—a couple of times when I’d popped into Dad’s office; once when she came to our New Year’s Eve party—but that was years ago. I remembered her as mildly hippie-ish, with huge earrings and a happy laugh. Was she with Dad, filling the heavy-hearted spaces and silences of our house? And was that a good thing or a bad thing? I wasn’t sure. Good, I suppose, if it made him happy.

“Freya? Say something. Have I upset you?”

“No, not at all.”

I began to understand how far I was from my old life; how little it belonged to me now. A couple of months ago this news would have been astounding, for better or worse. Now it was merely distracting.

“I’m glad,” I said.

“Thank you. Going back to this exhibition of Cory’s . . .”

“Yes.”

“You genuinely rate him, then? You’re not just being partial?”

I glanced round. Cory was lying with his hands over his face—he might have been miles away, or he might have been hanging on our every murmured word.

“Freya?”

“Just come,” I whispered. “Bring Zoë—bring whoever you like—but please, Dad, do this for me.”

We began writing invitations the same afternoon. It felt last minute—one and a half weeks’ notice? really?—but Cory was confident of pulling in a good crowd. “We can name-drop your father now, as well as my mother; of course they’ll come. They’ll come in droves.”

Cory wanted the invitations to be handwritten, and—on the basis that Aunty May had given me a calligraphy kit for my birthday several years ago, which had resulted in a brief enthusiasm for ornate lettering—the job fell to me. We went to Diana’s room, because that’s where her address book was kept, and he sat me down at the dressing table with a pile of cream cards, a pot of black ink, and a fat-nibbed pen.

Byrne Hall,

Bligh,

Devon.

Dear _____

Mrs. Diana Byrne is pleased to invite you to the launch of an exhibition of paintings by her son, Cory.

The exhibition, entitled Freya, will open at 6 p.m. on Saturday 15th November, at the family home.

Award-winning critic and journalist Robert Lyell will be in attendance as Guest of Honour.

Canapés and champagne will be served.

Dress code: black tie.

RSVP

“Do you think the wording is OK?”

I suppressed a shrug. “Sounds all right to me.”

I’d already written four cards and I was waiting for Cory to provide me with some names so I could fill in the blanks after Dear.