But with Daniel, it was different. A whole new level of getting to know someone, and letting them know me.

Except not all of me, of course.

Every time I talked about places I’d been or people I’d hung out with, my role at the newspaper, let alone how I’d ended up there, I had to censor my stories. Who was I kidding? I had to outright lie.

It was well after ten when I directed Daniel down the gravelly lane that led to the Tufted Duck. The only lights were the lamps bobbing on the boats in the marina to one side of us, and the cosy glow from the lanterns my parents had strung up along the porch up ahead.

We swerved around the side of the house to the staff car park at the rear. I gently scooped a rosy-cheeked, sleep-addled Hope out of the car while Daniel grabbed what bags he could manage.

‘Are you sure they’re expecting us?’ Daniel whispered as I led him through the garden that was advertised as ‘a stone’s throw from the lake’, which might be true if an Olympic athlete was the one launching the stone. ‘It looks deserted.’

I smiled. ‘It’s nearly 10.30. The Tufted Duck clientele will all be safely tucked up in bed by now. This isn’t the kind of establishment to encourage late-night carousing.’

At that moment, the kitchen door flew open and we were confronted with the silhouette of an elderly woman wearing a flannel nightgown and a head-scarf, brandishing an umbrella that looked to be nearly as long as she was tall.

‘Who goes there?’ she warbled, pointing the umbrella at us through the dark. ‘Stop or I’ll shoot!’

‘It’s fine!’ I called, hastily passing Hope to Daniel before hurrying over, taking the end of the makeshift weapon and attempting to point it somewhere other than my face. ‘It’s me, Eleanor.’

‘A likely story!’ she growled, managing to jerk the umbrella away and make a thrusting jab at my stomach. Thankfully, her strength was about as effectual as her speed, and I had plenty of time to side-step the attack and move close enough into the kitchen light for her to see my face.

‘Look, Grandma, it’s me.’ I placed one hand on her shoulder and smiled.

Squinting up at me, she took a moment to decide whether to believe her own eyes before grudgingly lowering the umbrella. ‘You’re late. Wendy and Colin are in bed.’

‘Not any more, we aren’t!’ My mother stepped out from the doorway, cinching the cord of her quilted dressing gown tighter.

‘What on earth is all this ruckus?’ Dad asked, his bushy eyebrows bristling. ‘This is a reputable establishment!’

‘This woman stole my umbrella!’ Grandma said, her face shining with glee as she pointed both index fingers at me.

‘Hi, Mum. Dad.’ I leaned past Grandma and gave them a wave. After a brief flash of surprise, they nodded in return, which was about as warm a welcome as a non-residential guest of the Tufted Duck would get. The older they grew, the more similar my parents looked. With only an inch between them in height, by day they lived in a uniform of plaid shirts and jeans so old they were fashionable again, and by night it was furry pyjamas and brown dressing gowns. Now both approaching seventy, their matching salt and pepper hair was kept short. Hands worn rough from all that cleaning, faces permanently tanned from all the gardening. Laughter lines were scarce, but years of worry were etched in permanent wrinkles. Solid, practical, predictable. Right then, it was precisely what I needed.