Rea closed her laptop and tossed it aside. ‘Thanks for doing that for Daisy.’ She hugged herself, though the room wasn’t cold. ‘It’s affecting her that I’m not leaving the house. I’m hurting my daughter and setting a bad example. My instinct earlier this evening was to keep her home with me for safety’s sake instead of looking for a way to get her to Niall’s safely. It’s made me take a hard look at myself.’ She was white apart from the pink slashes high on her cheeks.

Though she was glad Rea was facing facts, Laurel tried to keep her calm. ‘Daisy’s very mature for fourteen. She understands. It’s what I came back for, isn’t it? To support you and Daisy?’

Rea crossed and recrossed her legs. ‘But I’m so crap, Laurel. I wish I wasn’t like this.’ She picked up the laptop and slapped it angrily back down on the sofa cushion. ‘I’ve been reading about self-help for those with agoraphobia but they make it sound like it’s all down to bad diet and too much caffeine. As if a cuppa and a mince pie could make me feel like this!’

‘May I see the site?’ Laurel extended her hand and Rea thrust the laptop into it and then refolded her arms as if holding herself together.

Laurel took her time scrolling through the website, trying to absorb what she read and compare it with her own research on living with someone with agoraphobia. ‘I agree they suggest lifestyle changes and self-help techniques to help relieve symptoms, but they’re also signposting a guided self-help programme and cognitive behavioural therapy.’

‘I don’t think people believe agoraphobia is real,’ Rea said with a sigh, not really addressing what Laurel had said. ‘My GP suggested counselling but it sounded as if I’d have to go out of the house to access it. What use is that? “You don’t like leaving the house, eh? Well, I know just the thing for you – but it involves leaving the house.” That’s not helpful.’

‘So you dismissed it?’ Laurel murmured, imaging Rea forcing herself to the surgery and finding the offered solution so unpalatable she used it as an excuse to run for the safety of this house. The phrase ‘this house’ echoed abruptly in Laurel’s mind. It was as if The Nookery itself played a part in Rea’s issues, being both sanctuary and prison. How many forty-year-old people still lived in their childhood home? Her gaze dropped to the stack of home and garden magazines on the coffee table. Rea constantly tended and renewed the fabric of the cottage and felt responsible for it. It was a shame she had no flesh-and-blood relationships outside of it.

An idea flickered tentatively to life. ‘I thought I’d pop over and see Aunt Terri,’ she said. ‘How about—’