I stop dead, key to the side gate in my hand, at the sound of female laughter. I frown at the thought of going into the garden and finding Greg with a new girlfriend. I’ve been coming around every afternoon for a month and sometimes he’s been there, sometimes not, but it’s always been just him. He’s so easy to talk to. I tell him about Bella, about school, and about Max. Not mentioning any names, but just talking about my feelings. And he listens and advises and…it feels like I’m talking to a friend. In fact, he’s easier to talk to than any of the girls in school. I never used to be bothered that I didn’t have a best friend because I had Bella, but recently…bloody hell, how sad is it that forty-year-old Greg is the nearest thing I have to a real friend?

I waver, thinking of running. But no, why should I? He gave me a key, told me to come anytime. I push the gate open and walk around the side of the house, faltering when I get to the garden and see Bella standing there with Greg. She’s wearing tight faded jeans and a T-shirt that barely skims her belly button. My face gets hotter as I tug my own baggy T-shirt down over my jeans.

“Hey, Tess,” Greg calls, and my sister turns and sees me, her eyebrows rising in surprise.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, like this is her place.

I lift the trowel and fork I’m carrying in response. “Helping in the garden,” I mutter.

“Look what Greg’s lending me,” she says, holding up an ancient-looking camera. “The boys told him I was into photography.”

“But you already have a camera.” Dad gave her one for Christmas, one that cost a fortune.

“I know,” she says, turning the camera in her hands. “But this is a classic. I can’t wait to use it.” She reaches up and kisses Greg on the cheek and I feel the kiss like a sting. “Thank you so much.”

Greg smiles and touches her hair. He did the same to me the other day—he rubbed my curls like I used to see him doing to Ellie, four-year-old Ellie. He rubbed my head like I was a toddler. He does the same to Bella, tousling her blond hair, but my stupid brain sees it more as a caress. My hand clenches on the trowel and fork in my hand, hard enough to make my palm ache.

September 2007