They’d sat in the living room, which was cluttered and a little chaotic. As an interior designer, Heather was one of the minority who actually liked clutter. Stark, vast spaces, with clean lines and sharp surfaces, always seemed so unliveable to her. Naturally, she would do whatever a client asked of her, but when it came to her own personal style, she favoured warm wood, rugs, eclectic artwork, texture. Love. So different from her own childhood home, with its mismatched op shop couches that perennially smelled of dog even though Heather’s family had never owned one. There was always a terracotta pot in the middle of the coffee table, filled with cigarette butts, and a giant TV on the wall, one of the few things her dad could always seem to find money for.

‘What is it you want from the renovation, Pamela?’ Heather asked, as Stephen carried the empty mugs back to the kitchen. ‘What is your style?’

‘I like cosy,’ she said. ‘Cosy and comfy, that’s my style. Stephen prefers modern.’

‘I prefer what Pam likes,’ Stephen countered cheerfully. ‘Happy wife, happy life.’

They both chuckled. Heather did too. But after a few seconds, the smile faded from Pam’s face. ‘How rude of me. I haven’t even offered you a cup of tea! Will you have a cup?’

When Heather looked at Stephen, he held her gaze for just a second longer than would be considered normal. And then she understood.

‘Oh, thank you,’ she said to Pam. ‘But I’m fine.’

‘What is the announcement?’ Tully said, looking from Stephen to Heather and back again. ‘Come on. Out with it!’

‘Hold on a minute,’ Stephen said. ‘We need champagne!’ He glanced around for a waiter; Tully shot Heather a wary look.

‘The girls are going to love you,’ Stephen had said last week, when he suggested the meeting. She asked him to tell her as much as possible about each of them, and Stephen, to his credit, had done a reasonable job. He told her about Tully’s neuroses. About the fact that Rachel, to his knowledge, had never had a serious – or even casual – relationship. But there were things Stephen left out of his summaries. Like the fact that Rachel was not just ‘pretty’ but breathtaking – as divine a creature as Heather had ever seen. And the fact that Tully’s entire being came alive when she talked about her little boys. And the fact that both girls looked at Stephen with an adoration that was palpable, but also something else, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

‘Dad!’ Tully tried again, but the waiter was already approaching the table.

Stephen glanced at the wine list for a second or two before sighing helplessly. ‘A bottle of your best champagne, please. And four glasses.’

‘Three,’ Heather corrected. ‘None for me.’

Stephen frowned at her. ‘Really? You’re sure?’

Heather wasn’t sure. Heather was rarely sure of anything. It was an unappealing trait, she’d always thought. Get a spine, she told herself constantly. Be more decisive. She’d decided yesterday that she wasn’t going to drink today. Or at the very least, she’d only have one. It had felt like a prudent decision at the time.