‘Sue,’ I swallowed. ‘I had no idea you were going to be here.’ I’d written her first name on one of the signs, but hadn’t made the connection. ‘How are you?’

‘All the better for seeing you,’ she said, jumping up and pulling me in for a hug. ‘It’s been too long.’

Sue and Mum had been the best of friends back in the village where we lived up north. She had moved to Wynmouth after her second marriage and was the person who had flagged up the plantation sale to Dad. Given that she had been so instrumental in the move, which had been such a disaster for me, I could have continued to cling to the grudge, but she was so warm, friendly and kind, I couldn’t hold it against her any longer. Along with David, she had tried hard to support me after Dad’s death but I hadn’t let her in. Now, feeling comforted by the warmth of her embrace, I rather regretted that.

‘It has,’ I agreed, taking in her smiling face and plump rosy cheeks. ‘Far too long.’

‘It’s wonderful to have you back,’ she grinned.

She and Mum had run a sewing group back in the village, teaching anyone who was interested how to knit, sew, crochet and stitch. They were all skills they knew were fast being lost and were determined to pass on. Mum had carried on after Sue left, and I knew she had got something similar going in Wynmouth. Or at least she had.

‘Is your group still going?’ I asked. ‘Sue’s Sewing Circle, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right,’ she proudly said. ‘And yes, it’s still going strong. You should join us.’

‘Not me,’ I laughed. ‘I’m still better with a paintbrush than a needle.’

‘And on that note,’ said another woman, stepping forward. ‘I know who you are too.’ I wracked my brain, trying to recall her face, but couldn’t. She must have been just a couple of years younger than me. ‘I’m Wren,’ she said, ‘and I can remember you from school, Liza.’

‘Oh,’ I said, feeling my heart sink. ‘You can?’

She no doubt remembered my nickname and the ridiculing Chelsea endlessly subjected me to. I had been hoping to avoid further reminders of those dark days.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I was in awe of your artwork. Your exam portfolio which was on display in the hall was phenomenal.’

‘Oh,’ I flushed, completely taken aback, ‘thank you.’

‘Are you a full-time artist now?’

‘Oh no,’ I smiled. ‘I’m a school art therapist. Or I was until earlier in the year. I was made redundant at the end of the summer term.’

‘Oh no, I’m sorry to hear that,’ Wren sympathised.

‘It’s all right,’ I told her. ‘It’s actually led me to better things.’