With the kids due home at any moment, Helen emerged from the attic with Clive at her feet, creeping his way slowly down the stairs with bulldog grace. As she passed Hugh’s closed office door on the ground floor, she hesitated a moment, then pushed open the door and stepped into the room.

This room was originally the old library and her father’s office, with bookshelves lining the walls and a large picture window looking out over the garden to the side of the house. There was an air of severity in the room and it still felt like the headmaster’s office now that Hugh had taken residence, like the bookshelves were looking down on you in disappointment.

Must do better, Helen.

You would think it would’ve been her favourite room of all when she was younger and that she would’ve claimed it as her own when Hugh and the kids moved in, but this had always been her father’s domain. It reminded her of tense negotiations and shouted exchanges filtering through a door that was always firmly closed to her unless she was in trouble.

Hugh loved it. The door was still always firmly closed.

The air smelled faintly of Imperial Leather soap and old paper. There was a mug on the desk, a mouthful of coffee left in the bottom, ringing the white porcelain with a dark stain. Helen stepped around the desk and picked up the mug, but her fingers were moving slower than her brain and the mug slipped from her grip. The cold dregs of coffee splashed onto Hugh’s keyboard.

“Shit,” she muttered and grabbed a handful of tissues from a box on the desk. As she dabbed at the keyboard, the screen came to life and Hugh’s private Gmail inbox popped up.

Helen didn’t even know he had a Gmail account. He still walked around with an old Nokia phone into which he would shout as though he was on the moon.

Inexplicably, Helen looked over towards the open office door, even though she knew she was alone in the house. She glanced at the emails. One address seemed to have sent him a few emails in the last day or two, but Helen didn’t recognise it – [email protected]. None of the emails had a subject line, but they did have attachments. Helen reached for the mouse to open one of the messages just as the front door slammed.

Hastily she snatched her hand back, finished wiping down the keyboard and emerged from the office, dirty mug in hand and a flush in her cheeks.

Mills was in the hallway. She dumped her school bag under the console table before shrugging out of her coat. She looked over as Helen closed the office door behind her, excuses ready on the tip of her tongue.

“Hey, Mum,” Mills said.