Strangely – after our initial distress and anger – whenever we got together socially we avoided talking about our husbands and their parents. Instead, we concentrated on practicalities, such as divorce, house sales and children. Right now, Madeline feels like more of a sister to me than my own ever was.

We held a small private funeral for Dina with just Dad and I in attendance. It was a sad and depressing affair. I didn’t cry, but I noticed Dad wiping away a few tears. Neither of us comforted the other. In fact, we barely spoke. There wasn’t anything to say that didn’t involve a world of painful memories. And neither of us were ready to confront those. Dina had betrayed me, but she had paid the ultimate price. I didn’t want to spend the funeral thinking about our corrosive relationship, so instead I tried to focus on the times before Mum died. Back when we were proper sisters who played together and laughed and shared silly secrets. Before it all crumbled away.

And yet… despite Dina’s and my broken relationship, I can’t help thinking about those two instances in town where I saw my sister days before the party. First wearing that beautiful red coat, walking along the road with a man. And second when she locked eyes with me through the salon window. Both times, I had been so certain it was her. Even now, months later, I can recall each incident clear as day. I know it’s silly, but I almost believe it was her. Warning me somehow that nothing was as it seemed. That she had been the victim of foul play. A last attempt to somehow make amends, or at least connect with me in a meaningful way. I shiver and force my thoughts back to the present.

Madeline places the final empty packing box on the floor. ‘All done,’ she says, getting to her feet.

I put down the stack of bowls I’m holding. ‘You don’t have to leave right away, do you? Stay for tea, if you like.’

She yawns. ‘I better go. I’ve got food to prep for a client’s dinner party tomorrow.’

‘Okay. Thanks for today.’

‘That’s all right. You can return the favour when I move into my new place.’ She grins.

‘We’ll be there,’ Dad says. ‘As long as you unpack the kettle first.’

‘Of course. And I’ll even throw in some homemade cookies.’ She hugs us both and we spend the next ten minutes prying her daughters away from their cousins.