‘Don’t worry about what?’ Ruby asked as she came down from their bedroom. ‘God, what is that smell? It’s disgusting!’ She wafted the air with both hands towards the open back door. Both she and her mum did a double-take: Ruby’s make-up was thick and quite changed the way she looked. Gone was her natural, rosy-cheeked prettiness and in its place . . . Merrin tried to hide her expression, knowing Ruby had gone to a lot of trouble, but her sister looked part pantomime dame and part toddler let loose with her mum’s lipstick.

‘What you staring at?’ Ruby challenged, as was her way, direct and a little defensive.

‘Nothing.’ Merrin blinked. ‘And if you must know, the smell is Mum burning off my hair on the one day I need it to look nice, and that’s what I don’t have to worry about, which is good as, apparently, judging by her sighs and tears, I have a lot of other stuff I should be concerned with.’

‘It’s my job to worry,’ her mum said. ‘You are my littlest girl and, if I don’t, then who will?’

‘Her husband?’ Ruby replied, and in one swift move took the mug from her sister’s hands, downing the cooling tea before Merrin had a chance to object. ‘I’ll go put the kettle on.’ Ruby made her way to the sink. Her mum once again went to work with the curling tongs. ‘I can do your make-up, if you like, Merry?’ Ruby called out.

‘No!’

‘Oh, God no!’

She and her mum laughed in unison.

‘Don’t know why I even bother trying to be nice!’ Ruby mumbled.

Merrin felt her mother jiggle with laughter. Ruby’s comical petulance was legendary. As a child, she was the kind of girl who counted the Christmas presents to make sure she and her sister had the exact same number and who used her finger to measure the amount of juice in a glass in case she was being short-changed. Merrin had once asked her mum why her sister was this way.

Heather had shrugged. ‘A little bit of theatre and a little bit of the green-eyed monster, I think, but goodness knows, we love you both the same! And never forget she loves you. Truly she does. But it’s like her pendulum in’t quite set right; she swings too far between love and hate – fiery, like Granny Ellen.’

Today Merrin would take her sister’s comments in her stride; she was far more concerned with the fact she was off to get herself a husband than her sister’s misaligned pendulum.

Husband . . . a grown-up word, heavy with connotation. Married. But far from feeling flustered, she let the thought of Digby fill her. Mrs Mortimer . . . Her nose wrinkled, as she couldn’t help but picture the other Mrs Mortimer. Her mum tugged her scalp with the hairbrush. Merrin winced.