Rea checked behind her, then quietly closed the door. Her smile faded, leaving her usual tired, anxious expression. ‘I looked into referring myself to an NHS psychological therapies service. I’m waiting to hear from them. And I’ve registered for some webinars on managing worry and stress.’

Instantly, Laurel forgot her bra size and gave Rea an enthusiastic hug. ‘Wow. Good for you! I’m so pleased and proud. Are you going to tell Daisy?’

Rea nodded, but also grimaced. ‘It makes it harder for me to back out and I want to do it for her sake. She’s too young to shoulder my difficulties or, even worse in a way, have her freedom affected by my fears. I’ll talk to her after dinner when she’s finished her homework.’

Laurel gave Rea’s slight frame a fresh squeeze. ‘I think she’ll be delighted you’re trying to break out. How about you leave me to clear up after the takeaway dinner while you take her off to the sitting room?’

Though she returned the hug and agreed, Rea sighed. ‘I need to get it through to her that there’s no instant cure. I’ve heard people like me called a “shut-in”. The longer it goes on, the harder breaking out seems.’

‘Remember that if you ever want me to go somewhere with you, I’ll come, even if I’m painting at the time,’ Laurel promised rashly, though she could feel her artist-self send her a death glare.

‘Aw, thanks, kid,’ said Rea, using the affectionate term from their teen years.

They all relaxed over takeaway, teasing each other as they sneaked the last spare rib or more than their share of prawn crackers. Daisy had ditched her school uniform and was wearing a purple sweatshirt with Don’t think you can ctrl + alt + del me on the front. Laurel got Cobra Beers from the fridge for her and Rea, and Daisy was allowed a weak shandy. Laurel enjoyed the lift of mood in the household, even though Rea became progressively quieter as the meal progressed, no doubt because her planned conversation with Daisy drew near.

When the meal was finally over, Rea tugged Daisy’s long hair and murmured, ‘Can we have a chat? Let’s go in the sitting room.’ Laurel was happy to undertake the hand washing of foil containers that Rea would use at least once more before recycling, stacking cutlery and glasses in the dishwasher, mind returning pleasurably to her Everyday Woman painting.

Just as she’d selected a pod for the coffee machine, her phone rang and she saw it was Alex calling. She grabbed a favourite mug, pale green and iridescent, and answered while slotting the pod into the machine. ‘Hiya.’