Copyright

Published by Avon

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2015

This ebook edition 2015

Copyright © Fiona Gibson 2015

Cover design © Emma Rogers 2015

Fiona Gibson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © January 2015 ISBN: 9780007469390

Version: 2016-02-20

Dedication

For Jane Parbury with love

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Reading on for an Interview of Fiona Gibson

Acknowledgements

About the Author

By the same author

About the Publisher

February 14, 1997

Dear Fraser,

Happy Valentine’s Day! Sorry this is late. You see, a few of the girls at work got flowers today and that made me think of you.

It also made me wonder why your phone number’s unavailable. Perhaps it’s broken? And maybe you’ve injured your hand and haven’t been able to write? If so, I sympathise. I know you don’t handle pain well. I’m still smirking at the memory of you being agonisingly constipated after wolfing that massive bag of toffees on the train to Amsterdam.

Surely, though, phone issues aside, you could have got in touch somehow? You know – just to tell me you’re okay and haven’t died (maybe you ARE dead? But then, wouldn’t someone have tracked me down and let me know?). In fact I don’t really think of any of that. You know what I do think? That you’re scared, Fraser. You’re a terrified boy who – despite all your promises – has decided to run away.

BLOODY COWARD!!!

Honestly, I didn’t expect this from you. ‘It’ll be fine,’ you told me, that day when we drove down to Brighton. ‘It’ll be amazing. I’m so happy. Please don’t worry about a thing.’ Do you remember saying all that? The ensuing silence suggests you were lying through your very nice, very posh teeth.

So I’ve made a decision. I’ve stopped hoping you’ll get back in touch at some distant point and throw me a crumb of support. I’m not scrabbling around like a fat pigeon, waiting for your scraps. You were right – our baby and I will be just fine. We don’t need you.

Goodbye, Fraser.

Charlotte

PS Actually, I wish I could be a pigeon for just long enough to shit on your head.

*

February 19, 1997

Dear Charlotte,

I hope this finds you well. My name is Arlene Johnson and I am Fraser’s mother. After receiving your charming letter he wishes to have no further contact with you. I trust you will find both the enclosed cheque and small gift useful, and sincerely hope that there will be no further correspondence between yourself and my son. Please remember that he is only 19 years old and has a promising future ahead of him.

Yours,

Arlene

Enclosed:

1 cheque for £10,000

1 packet Chirpy Nut and Seed Mix For Wild Birds

*

February 23, 1997

Dear Arlene,

That was kind of you, trying to pay me off. Thanks, too, for reminding me of Fraser’s age. I am aware of how old he is. I’m only 21 myself and some might say I have a promising future too. The last time I saw him, we drove down to Brighton in the middle of the night and sat on the seafront watching the sun coming up. He seemed very happy about the baby. We both were. It might not have been planned but we decided we could make it work and that we wanted to be together.

Obviously, he’s had a change of heart. I’d be grateful if you could ask him to contact me. I know he’s a very capable boy and I’m sure he could manage to write a letter himself instead of getting his mummy to do it for him.

Charlotte

Enclosed: 1 torn-up cheque. Perhaps you could use it as confetti, when Fraser marries a more suitable (preferably un-pregnant) girl?

*

February 28, 1997

Letter returned to sender. No further correspondence.

Chapter One
Present Day

‘Hey, beautiful!’ the blond boy yells, nudging his friend. They watch, admiring, as the shopping crowds mill around us. There are more glances as we walk: some fleeting, others more direct. All this attention isn’t for me; Christ no, that hasn’t happened since Madonna vogued in a gold conical bra. Even then, it pretty much amounted to a bloke up some scaffolding yelling, ‘Your arse looks like two footballs!’ I’d adored my stretch jeans until that sole cruel comment killed the love affair stone dead. Not that I’m the kind of woman to take any notice of construction workers’ remarks. I mean, I’ve only festered over it for twenty-three years …

Anyway, of course it’s not me who’s causing virtually every young male in this over-heated shopping mall to perform a quick double-take. I am thirty-eight years old with wavy, muddy brown hair that’s supposed to be shoulder-length but has outgrown its style, yet isn’t properly long – it’s just long-ish. That’s what my hair is: ish. I am also laden with copious bulging bags, like a yak. Judging by the odd glimpse in mirrored surfaces, I note that I have acquired a deathly pallor beneath the mall’s unforgiving lights. I also have what the magazines term ‘a shiny breakthrough’ on my nose and cheeks.

The cruel lighting, of course, is not detracting from my daughter Rosie’s beauty. Leggy and slender, with a cascade of chestnut hair which actually gleams, like polished wood, she’s marching several paces ahead, lest someone might assume we’re together. Faster and faster she goes, on the verge of breaking into a trot, while I scuttle behind, tasked with carrying the shopping. Incredibly, Rosie doesn’t seem to notice the glances she’s attracting from all these good-looking young males. Perhaps, when you’re so often admired, you simply become immune to it.

I stop, dumping the bags on the floor and checking my hands for lacerations while she courses ahead. ‘Rosie!’ I call after her. ‘Rosie – wait!’ While there are no open wounds, I have acquired a callus on my left palm from lugging Will’s birthday presents through the mall. Sure, I could have bought them online, but when we stumbled upon a closing down sale earlier, I couldn’t resist grabbing a quality turntable, headphones and speakers (yes, I am transporting speakers – i.e., virtually furniture) at bargain prices.

At first, I comforted myself with the thought that my husband will enjoy unearthing his vinyl collection from the loft, and be able to re-live those heady, music-filled evenings of his youth. Now, though, I’m concerned that Will, who’s been without gainful employment for six months, might view my purchases as ‘something to fill your copious spare time’-type gifts – i.e., faintly patronising, and not something I’d have thought of buying when he was busy being a senior person with an environmental charity. It’s his birthday tomorrow; he’ll be forty-one. I have already stashed away a blue cashmere sweater and the delicious figgy fragrance he likes. Maybe that was enough. I don’t want him to think I’m festooning him with presents because I feel sorry for him … oh, God. Things were so much simpler when he went off to work every day, either by Tube to his Hammersmith office or off in his car to some marshy bit of London, with his waders and big waxy jacket stashed in the boot. He doesn’t even have his own car anymore. He sold it, saying, ‘I don’t need it, do I? So what’s the point of keeping it?’

‘Better for the environment anyway,’ our son Ollie added, in an attempt to cheer him up.

Through the shopping crowds I glimpse Rosie in her baggy red top and skinny black jeans which make her legs even longer than they really are. They are limbs of a foal, or a sleek gazelle. She canters past Gap and Fat Face with her hair billowing behind her before performing a swift left turn into Forever 21.

Please, no – not Forever 21. The shop is vast, almost a city in itself, with its own transport system (about fifty escalators) and populated by millions of hot-cheeked teenagers snatching at skirts in sizes that didn’t even exist (six! four!!) when I was that age. Size ten was considered tiny then. I’m what’s commonly termed a ‘curvy’ fourteen: neatish waist nestling between ample hips and sizeable boobs, which aren’t quite the blessing one might imagine. In the wrong kind of outfit, they make me look as if I have one of those huge German sausages – a kochwurst, I believe they’re called – stuffed up my top. Or a bolster, like you find on posh hotel beds. Those weird cylindrical pillows you never know what to do with and end up throwing on the floor. Chest-wise, I have to be careful with necklines so as to avoid a stern matronly look. Yes, a big rack can be sexy in the right context. Too often, though, it gives off an ‘I am unfazed by bedpans’ sort of vibe.

I peer through the enormous glass frontage of Forever 21. It’s packed in there, virtually a scrum, as if these highly-charged girls are terrified that the supply of sequinned T-shirts and iridescent leggings is about to run dry. I can imagine the pained looks I’d attract if I dared to hobble in with my sacks of stereophonic equipment, never mind tried to enter the changing rooms and try anything on. They’d probably call security and wrestle me out of the building.

I hover at the doors with my bags clustered around my feet, like someone who has unexpectedly become homeless. I’ll never find Rosie in there. She might as well have gone to China. Another woman, presumably a mother, loiters nearby, pursing her lips and stabbing irritably at her phone. There’s also a scattering of boys and men, all waiting, presumably wondering what the heck their girlfriends and daughters have been doing in there for eighteen hours.

After what I regard as an acceptable browsing period, I call Rosie’s mobile. No answer. I actually don’t know why she has a phone – or at least, why I pay the contract for it. It’s supposed to enable us to stay in contact. When she was younger, she’d constantly call and message me while she was out. These days, she texts me about once a month. They usually say ‘ok’ or ‘yeah’, although she does still put a kiss, for which I’m grateful.

A woman strolls by with a little girl who looks about seven years old. ‘Shall we go for ice cream, darling?’ the woman asks.

‘Yeah,’ the girl enthuses. ‘Can we go to that place where they sprinkle Smarties on?’

‘Of course,’ the woman replies, causing a wave of nostalgia to crash over me. How excited she is, out shopping with her mum, like Rosie used to be with me. I’d only suggested coming here so we could spend some mum-and-daughter time together, because I know she prefers shopping malls with their weird, artificial atmosphere and piped music to actual streets with proper weather and pigeons and sky. But I’d imagined that we’d at least stroll around together, and stop off for hot chocolate and cake.

My phone rings, and I snatch it from my jeans pocket. ‘Mum, where are you?’

‘Outside Forever 21,’ I reply.

‘Come in!’ she commands.

‘It’s okay thanks, darling. I’ll wait here.’ I would rather spear my own eye than enter the Emporium of Cropped Tops.

‘Mum, please—’

‘I need at least a week’s warning to go in,’ I explain. ‘I have to rev myself up for it and get special breathing equipment. I’m sure the atmosphere’s thinner up at the top, the fifth floor or whatever it is, where the underwear is—’

‘Mum, something’s happened!’

‘What? Are you okay?’ I grab at my bags, realising it’ll be quite a feat to carry them all while clutching my phone.

‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ Rosie says.

‘Where are you exactly? What’s happened?’

‘You’ll never believe this, Mum. I’ve been scouted!’ What pops into my mind is the actual Scouts, which Rosie chose over Guides because they did all the fun stuff like camping and cooking on fires. She was a tomboyish, outdoorsy kid who shunned pink. She never used to gallop ahead, or spend an entire morning choosing a nail polish. ‘What d’you mean, scouted? Are you sure you’re okay?’

‘Yeah, just hurry up. There’s someone here from a model agency and they want to do pictures …’

Ah, that kind of scouted. Nice try, I decide, finishing the call. So a random stranger’s trying to sweet-talk my daughter with that old ‘could be a model’ line? I can imagine how that goes. All she has to do is come along to his ‘studio’, which happens to be a dingy flat with filthy net curtains above a fried chicken shop …

The security man eyes me in the manner of a suspicious immigration officer as I barge my way into the store. I stride up the escalators, barely noticing the weight of my carrier bags now.

I arrive, panting, at the summit of Forever 21 and scan the floor for a man with paedo glasses, smiling too much and telling Rosie she has a great future ahead of her. I’m fine – well, sort of – when boys of her own age look at her. Of course they do: she’s a lovely girl. I’m aware that teenagers are supposed to find each other attractive and, while there’s been nothing serious yet, she’s never short of attention from boys. I’m okay with that – truly. Honestly. Well, mostly … What I’m not fine about is the idea of some fifty-year-old perv with nicotine fingers and winking gold jewellery thinking he can take advantage of my daughter …

No sign of her anywhere. My hair seems to crackle as I push it out of my face, probably due to the static electricity generated by millions of nylon knickers and bras.

‘Mum! Hey, Mum, over here!’

I turn and spot Rosie, who’s waving excitedly. Beside her stands a tall, slim and elegant woman – late-forties perhaps – in a cream linen jacket and faded skinny jeans, her ash-blonde hair scooped up artfully into a tousled bun. Not quite the chicken-shop perv I had in mind, but we’ll see …

‘Hi.’ I stride over and look expectantly at the stranger.

‘Hi,’ she says, fixing on a wide smile, ‘I’m Laurie and I work for a model agency called Face …’

‘I’m Charlotte.’ I dump the bags at my feet and shake her hand.

‘I hope you don’t mind,’ she goes on, ‘but I spotted your daughter a few minutes ago. We’ve been chatting.’ She casts Rosie a fond glance, in the manner of a glamorous aunt, before turning back to me. ‘I really think she has the potential to be a model.’

‘Really?’ I wipe a slick of sweat from my upper lip. ‘Well, you see, she’s still at school …’

‘Yes, she told me. That’s fine, lots of our girls are. I love her look, the stunning blue eyes and dark hair … it’s very dramatic.’ She turns back to Rosie. ‘You have fantastic bone structure, sweetheart. I can’t believe you’ve never been scouted before …’

‘I’m not really sure,’ I say firmly. ‘We’d need to think it over.’

‘Oh, of course,’ Laurie says, addressing Rosie again: ‘How tall are you, darling?’

Rosie frowns. ‘Er, what would you say, Mum? About five-foot-eight?’

‘Yes, around that,’ I reply, noticing Laurie looking her up and down. This is more unsettling than the admiring looks she was attracting in the mall. She is sizing up my precious firstborn as a commodity, a thing, tilting her head this way and that, as if my daughter were a bookshelf and she’s trying to imagine if she’d fit in that corner behind the sofa.

‘I’d say more like five-nine,’ she observes, ‘at the very least. And you said you’re sixteen, Rosie?’

‘Only just,’ I cut in.

‘Mum,’ Rosie splutters, ‘I’m seventeen in August. That’s next month!’ She cuts me from her vision. ‘I’m actually nearly seventeen.’

‘I still think it’s a bit young,’ I remark. ‘And anyway, she has a lot on at school over the next few months—’

Rosie emits a dry laugh. ‘Yeah, like the summer holidays. That’s what I’m doing over the next few months. I’ve nothing planned at all. We’re not even going away, are we, Mum?’

‘We might,’ I say defensively.

‘Well, this is exactly the age we like them to start,’ Laurie cuts in, delving into her tan leather bag for a business card which she presses into my palm. ‘Some join us even younger, but of course they’re always chaperoned on castings and jobs … Okay if I take a quick picture, Rosie?’

‘Er, sure,’ she replies with a shy smile. Don’t ask me, then. I’m only her mother.

I squint at the card as Laurie takes the shot with her phone. She seems genuine; it says Laurie Piper, Head Booker, Face Models, not Creepy Weirdo Who Prowls Around Shops Where Teenagers Go. The agency is in Long Acre in Covent Garden, not some godforsaken suburb I’ve barely heard of. In fact, with her cool grey eyes and pronounced cheekbones, Laurie has the air of an ex-model herself. ‘That’s beautiful,’ she enthuses, studying the image on her phone. ‘Such a fresh, pretty face.’

‘Thank you,’ Rosie says, blushing. Oddly enough, whenever I tell my daughter how lovely she is, she fixes me with a rather beleaguered, you’re-only-saying-that sort of look.

‘So,’ Laurie goes on, ‘perhaps you’d both like to think it over? Give me a call and pop into the agency sometime for a chat. You can meet the team and we’ll explain how everything works …’

‘Okay,’ Rosie says brightly.

‘I’m really not sure,’ I tell Laurie, irritated now that she doesn’t seem to have listened to a word I’ve said. ‘Next year’s really important for Rosie. She needs good grades in her A-levels because she’s hoping to do a veterinary degree …’

‘Huh?’ Laurie says distractedly.

‘Rosie wants to be a vet,’ I explain.

‘Mum, it’s fine!’ Rosie throws me a pleading look.

‘Don’t worry about that,’ Laurie says. ‘We can always work around school …’ What the hell does that mean? ‘… And we nurture our girls. We’re like a surrogate family really …’

She doesn’t need a surrogate family!

‘Anyway,’ Laurie adds, turning back to my daughter as if I’ve conveniently melted into the shiny white floor, ‘lovely to meet you. Do think it over, won’t you?’

Rosie grins. ‘I definitely will.’

‘Bye then.’ We watch her striding towards the escalator.

‘God, Mum,’ Rosie breathes. ‘I can’t believe you did that.’

‘Did what?’

‘Went on about me wanting to be a vet!’

I frown, prickling with hurt. ‘I didn’t go on. I just mentioned it. You’ve been saying for years that that’s what you want to do. She can’t just expect you to drop all your plans—’

‘She doesn’t. Weren’t you listening? She said they work around school.’ She lets out an exasperated gasp as we step onto the escalator. ‘I can’t understand why you’re not happy for me.’

Oh, for crying out loud. ‘I am. Of course I am. You’re lovely and you’d make an amazing model. But I just think, I don’t know …’ I scrabble for the right words. ‘I didn’t think it’d be your kind of thing.’

She blinks at me. ‘Why not?’ How can I put this – that I can’t imagine my bright, sparky daughter fitting into a vacuous, appearance-obsessed world? Maybe that’s unfair, and the truth is that I just don’t want her to do it, because it’s scary and unknown and, actually, I’d prefer things to stay the way they are. ‘You think I want to be huddled over my books all my life,’ Rosie mutters.

‘No, I’m not saying that. But you’ve got loads going on, love. I don’t see how modelling will fit into all of that.’

We fall into silence as we leave the shop. I glance at Rosie, feeling guilty for dampening her excitement. ‘I just think it’d be fun,’ she murmurs finally.

‘I’m sure it would be,’ I say.

She musters a small smile. ‘Sorry for being snappy.’

‘It’s okay. And I don’t want to be a killjoy, you know. It’s just, I didn’t realise agency people worked that way …’

‘You mean scouting girls?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, Kate Moss was scouted,’ she says, taking a couple of carrier bags from me without even being asked. ‘That’s how they find new models.’

‘What, by prowling around shops?’

She laughs. ‘Laurie wasn’t prowling, Mum. You’re so suspicious! She was really nice.’

‘Yes, she did seem nice, but, you know … we’ll have to see.’ As we make our way out of the mall, I try to figure out how to put her off modelling without spoiling what was clearly a thrilling encounter for her. The truth is, what’s so lovely about Rosie is that there’s so much more to her than the way she looks. She excels at school, even in the subjects she struggles with, because she works hard. Yes, she can be rather spiky at times, but isn’t that part of being a sixteen-year-old girl?

As we drive home, I try to imagine her dad’s reaction to today’s encounter. Will’s handsome, strong-jawed face shimmers into my mind, and it’s not awash with delight. He’s very protective, and I know he regards the fashion industry as a load of fluff and nonsense. Rosie’s too smart for all that, he’ll decide. He was pretty taken aback when she started to fill the bathroom with a baffling array of skincare and hair products. ‘She’s just a normal teenage girl,’ I explained.

Plus, while he may have been persuadable at one time, Will has become rather grumpy of late. I can guess why; he is stressed about our precarious finances. Until January, he was employed by Greenspace Heritage, a charity which protects wildlife and its habitats within the M25. Unfortunately, the new Director’s views were at odds with Will’s. While my husband felt it was all about encouraging the public to enjoy London’s hidden wildernesses – i.e., to get messy and have fun – the boss believed they should focus on negotiating corporate deals to bring in huge injections of cash. And so Will was ‘let go’ from the job he’d loved, and which had consumed him for the past decade.

‘Something’ll come up,’ he keeps saying, which is having the opposite effect of reassuring me. I’ve become conscious of treading carefully around him – of picking my moment before asking anything even faintly controversial. For instance, while I know he’s applying for jobs, are any interviews likely to happen in the near future – i.e., at some point this year? I can’t help worrying that his redundancy pay-off must have all but run out by now. ‘There’s enough in the joint account isn’t there?’ he asked tersely, last time I raised it. Yes, there was, just about – thanks to my full-time job. However, we both know I don’t earn enough to keep the four of us long-term.

In fact, occasionally I wonder if it’s not Will’s redundancy, but something far scarier that’s driving us apart: that, quite simply, he’s stopped fancying me. I caught him glancing at me the other night as I undressed for bed, and he didn’t look as if he were about to explode with desire. By the time I’d pulled off my bra – a sturdy black number capable of hoisting two porpoises to safety from an oil-slicked sea – he was already feigning sleep.

I lay awake for ages, studying the back of his head. Do we still love each other? I wondered, not for the first time. Or are we only together for the kids, or because we’re too old or scared to break up and start all over again? It’s not that I expect full-on passion all the time, not when we’ve been married for thirteen years. But, more and more often these days, I find myself wondering, is this as good as it gets?

I glance at Rosie as we make our slow journey home through the outer reaches of East London. ‘You do remember it’s Dad’s birthday tomorrow?’ I prompt her.

‘God, yes.’ She pulls a horrified face.

‘You haven’t bought him anything?’

‘Sorry, Mum. I was going to today, but after we’d met Laurie it went right out of my mind …’ First whiff of modelling stardom and she forgets her dad’s birthday. Not good.

‘Could you make him a card, at least?’

‘Yeah, of course,’ she replies, pausing before adding, ‘D’you think they’ll take me on?’

So she really wants to do this. ‘Let’s see what happens. Maybe it’s best not to get too excited about it.’

‘Why not?’ she exclaims. ‘It is exciting, Mum! Why are you being so negative?’

‘I’m not, Rosie. We just need to think about what it might mean for you. And of course,’ I add, trying to sound as if it’s no big deal at all, ‘we’ll have to talk it over with Dad.’

Chapter Two

We arrive home to find Ollie, who’s eleven, poring over his laptop at the kitchen table. ‘This is so cool, Mum,’ he announces without shifting his gaze from the screen.

‘Lovely. Anyway, hello, hon. Had a good afternoon?’

‘You didn’t even look!’ I glance over his shoulder – he’s studying a rather professional-looking microscope, with numerous levers and knobs – then stash the bags containing Will’s presents out of sight in the cupboard under the stairs.

Ollie shares his dad’s passion for science and nature – triggered, I suspect, by the sweetly entitled ‘field trips’ Will used to take the kids on, from which they’d return all excited and mud-splattered and present me with larvae and bugs. Sometimes he’d take them off camping for a couple of days. While Ollie still ventures out with him occasionally, Rosie hasn’t pulled on her waders for several years now. Maybe, I reflect, Will feels redundant in more ways than one.

I wave at him through the kitchen window. He grins from our back garden – his arms are laden with bits of shrub – and motions that he won’t be a minute. ‘I’d love this for my birthday,’ Ollie muses, still peering at the screen.

‘We’ll see, love. But it’s not until December and Dad’s is tomorrow, okay? So it’s slightly more urgent. Hope you’ve remembered.’

‘Oh! Yeah, yeah,’ he says blithely as Will strides in, dispenses a quick kiss on my cheek and says, ‘I’ll just get cleaned up. Did you have a good time at the shops?’ Without waiting for an answer he bounds upstairs.

Rosie, who’d wandered off to see her rabbit, emerges from the utility room with him snuggled in her arms. Sixteen she may be, and the proud owner of a Babyliss hot brush, yet she still adores her pet. Guinness is getting on a bit now, and Rosie insisted we took him to the vet (I suspect she wanted an excuse to nosy about at the surgery) for a bunny MOT. Being unable to find anything wrong with him, the vet suggested that perhaps he shouldn’t spend all his time outdoors, for which he charged a £45 consultation fee. And so Guinness now ‘divides his time’ between a luxury hutch and adjoining run in the garden, and a large hay-filled box in our utility room.

‘Where’s Dad?’ Rosie asks, stroking back Guinness’s ears.

‘Having a shower,’ I reply. ‘He’s been gardening all day.’

‘Can’t wait to tell him!’ Her eyes are shining, her cheeks flushed with excitement.

‘Tell him what?’ Ollie mutters, zooming in for a closer look at the microscope.

‘I was scouted today.’

‘What?’ Ollie turns to face her. ‘By a model agency, you mean?’ Christ, even he is familiar with the term.

‘Yeah,’ Rosie says with a grin.

‘Like, they reckon you could be on the cover of magazines and stuff?’

‘Yes, Ollie.’

‘You, with your funny little sticky-up nose?’ He jumps up from his seat and mimics a supermodel strut across the kitchen. With a gasp of irritation, and with Guinness still clutched to her chest, Rosie stomps up to her room.

‘What’s up with her?’ Ollie asks.

‘Oh, she’s just excited and thinks you’re not taking it seriously.’

He pushes back choppy dark hair from his grey-blue eyes. ‘But Rosie’s not interested in modelling. It’s a crap job, Mum. They’re a load of bitchy anorexics—’

‘You can’t say that,’ I retort, still amazed that he has any awareness of the business at all. ‘You don’t know anything about it. Neither do I …’

‘Who’s a bitchy anorexic?’ Will strolls into the kitchen, all fresh and smelling delicious from his shower.

‘No one,’ I say quickly.

‘Dad, look at this,’ Ollie pipes up, beckoning him over to the laptop. Will peers at the microscope.

‘Yeah, that looks great. That’s pretty serious kit.’

‘… It’s got incident and transmitted illumination,’ Ollie explains, ‘and look how powerful that eyepiece is …’

I watch them, flipping from one image to the next, whilst attempting to communicate silently to Ollie that he mustn’t blurt out anything about Rosie being scouted today. That modelling thing, I urge him, please do not speak of it until I can be sure that Dad’s in the right sort of mood. In fact, I’m pretty certain he’ll view modelling as completely wrong and ridiculous for his beloved Rosie. Whenever I explain to anyone that Will isn’t her biological dad – she was eighteen months old when we met – I quickly point out that he is her dad in every other possible way. He’s been a brilliant father to her. Some women go for charm or money or incredible prowess in bed. I realised I’d fallen madly in love with Will Bristow when he appeared at my flat with the wooden toy garage he’d built for Rosie, complete with an actual working lift, for her collection of toy cars.

‘I know she’s not old enough for it really,’ he said apologetically, ‘but I had some wood kicking about and got a bit carried away …’ Sure, my heart had already been flipped by his wide, bright smile, his deep blue eyes and lean, delicious body. But it was that lift, that you wound up and down with a tiny handle, which made me realise that this kind, rather shy man, who cared about plants and the dwindling red squirrel population, could quite possibly be the love of my life.

Will glances up from the laptop. ‘What were you saying about bitchy anorexics?’

‘Oh, nothing, hon. We’ll talk about it later.’ I throw Ollie a don’t-say-anything look, then delve into a carrier bag and thrust him a present – the mini silver Maglite torch he’s been after.

‘Aw, great! Thanks, Mum!’

I smile, watching him admire its powerful beam. He is less enthusiastic about his other gift, and merely flings it over a chair. ‘Ollie,’ I prompt him, ‘could you admire your new sweatshirt, please? It’s for school. You said you needed one and I actually went into Hollister for that, because Maria said they do the nicest ones for boys and you complained that the last ones were thin and cheap-looking.’ I blink at him, awaiting gratitude. ‘I could have just gone to BHS,’ I add.

‘Uh-huh,’ he mutters.

‘D’you realise it’s completely dark in Hollister?’ I continue. ‘It’s like venturing down towards the earth’s core. They should issue miners’ helmets with lamps on for us ordinary people who don’t have special night vision …’

Ollie smirks. ‘It’s meant to be dark, Mum.’

‘Yes, I realise that. If I’d bought your torch before I went in, then I wouldn’t have been stumbling about, treading on people’s feet. Also, I can’t believe the looks policy they have in there. I mean, all the staff look like models …’ Damn, the M-word pops out before I can stop it.

Ollie turns to Will. ‘Guess what, Dad …’

Please, do not speak of it …

‘What?’ Will asks.

‘Rosie’s gonna be a model!’

Oh, bloody hell …

Will frowns at me. ‘Huh? What’s going on?’

I grab his hand and smile broadly. ‘Nothing, darling. Nothing’s going on. Well, not much. Come and show me what you’ve been doing in the garden and I’ll tell you all about it.’

It worries me, as we step out into the warm July afternoon, this occasional tendency I have of addressing Will as if he were about eight years old. It started after his redundancy, and I’m only trying to be supportive and kind. However, I fear it can come out sounding as if I might try to check his hair for a nit infestation, or arrange his pizza toppings to make a face.

Will seems more relaxed as we sit side by side on our worn wooden bench in the late afternoon sunshine. We bought this place – a redbrick terrace in dire need of an upgrade – when Ollie was a toddler, figuring that two children with limitless energy really needed a lawn to run about on. What we’d failed to realise was that if you own a garden, you actually have to garden it. But we’d had our hands full with the children and our jobs, and the previous owners’ immaculate borders soon ran amok, much to the consternation of Gerald and Tricia next door.

‘It’s fine,’ I’d say, whenever one of them peered over the fence and asked what our ‘plans’ for it were. ‘You don’t want precious plants with kids running about. We far prefer it like this.’ I talked as if it were an actual lifestyle choice, and not sheer neglect, that had made our garden that way. It grew even more jungly – with Tricia making the occasional barbed comment that we might ‘get someone in to, you know, give you a hand’ – until Will found himself with acres of time to tackle it. And when he’s not gardening, he’s out on his bike, foraging for wild food in the leafy pockets of East London; we’ve had elderflower, sorrel and armfuls of watercress. He’s turned into quite the hunter-gatherer, and it suits him. He looks like the kind of man who, should you find yourself trapped on a mountain in a freak storm, would be capable of knocking up a sturdy shelter from a couple of sticks and a bread wrapper and cook a hearty meal out of some lichen.

‘So,’ Will says now, shielding his eyes from the sun, ‘what’s this about modelling?’

‘Oh, a woman from an agency spotted Rosie in Forever 21 and said she has potential. It’s not a big deal …’

‘Forever 21?’ Such places don’t feature on Will’s radar.

‘Clothes shop the size of Belgium. I wouldn’t recommend going in without a ration pack and some kind of paper trail to help you find your way back out …’

‘Well,’ he says, ‘I hope you told her where to get off.’

I look at him, momentarily lost for words. ‘Of course I didn’t. D’you honestly think I’d speak to anyone like that?’

Will shrugs. ‘What did you tell her then?’

‘I didn’t tell her anything. It’s not as if she was offering Rosie an actual job or a contract or however they do it. I mean, she wasn’t about to drag her off by her hair and throw her onto a catwalk …’ He flares his nostrils, a relatively new habit of his. ‘Anyway,’ I add, ‘I said we’d think it over.’

‘What is there to think about?’ Will asks. ‘You know what the modelling world’s like …’

‘No, I don’t,’ I say firmly, ‘and neither do you.’

He turns to me, eyes guarded. ‘Well, I can imagine. Half a tomato a day, hoovering up a ton of coke—’

‘What?’ I splutter. ‘That’s a bit of a leap, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t think so. And what about photographers preying on young girls?’

Deep breath. Keep calm. Focus on the blue haze of cornflowers. ‘Well, yes, I s’pose that does happen occasionally …’

‘And you’d be okay with that, would you?’

‘Of course I wouldn’t. God. What a thing to say, Will!’ I glare at him, knowing he’s only acting this way because he’s concerned, and wants the best for Rosie. However, he wasn’t snippy like this when he had barely a moment to himself, often working evenings and weekends if Greenspace required it. And, whilst I’m hugely impressed that he’s learnt how to make food shoot up from the earth, I also worry that he’s become a little … anchorless. ‘Face is a proper agency,’ I add huffily. ‘The woman gave me her card.’

‘Oh, her card! She couldn’t have faked that then.’

‘You’re suggesting she prints up bogus cards to lure girls to her office?’

Will shrugs again. ‘Maybe.’

I clamp my back teeth together and fix my gaze on our unlovely shed which is huddled, slowly sagging and rotting, at the bottom of the garden. ‘Look,’ I say carefully, ‘this obviously means a lot to Rosie. You should have seen her – she was thrilled to bits. I’m not madly keen on the idea either, but I think it’s only fair to let her visit the agency so we can find out what it’s all about.’ Will slides his gaze towards me. ‘It’s just a chat,’ I add. ‘I know you’re being protective, but surely you realise I’d never say yes if I thought she was going to be exploited in any way …’

Will digs a trainer toe into the gravel path. ‘Sorry. You’re right. I’m just being a jerk.’

I link my arm through his. His arms are lightly tanned, his skin warm to the touch. ‘No, you’re not. You’re her dad and you love her and just want to keep her safe.’

He musters a smile. ‘Wonder what Mum’ll have to say?’

‘God, yes, I hadn’t thought of that.’ Gloria, my mother-in-law, was a beauty queen in the 70s and she’s coming round later for dinner. I can’t decide whether her input will be helpful; she’s never seemed especially keen to discuss her glamorous past. But maybe, as it concerns Rosie, she’ll be happy to offer advice.

Then it hits me: my friend Liza’s daughter, Scarlett, appeared in a couple of catalogues before going to university. Liza will have a more up-to-date view of modelling than Gloria does and, more importantly, she’s brilliant company and gets along with everyone. I call her to invite her to dinner and, thankfully, she sounds delighted to come. Diluting the mother-in-law effect, I think it’s called.

Chapter Three

Gloria’s golden hair – it’s actually gold, rather than merely blonde – is set in stiff waves, as if piped on top of her head. She has a neat, narrow nose and large, carefully made-up pale blue eyes, involving several toning shades of iridescent shadow. The overall effect is of refined beauty, although, if small children were around, you’d be worried that they might cut themselves on her cheekbones. ‘Hello, Gloria,’ I say, kissing her powdered cheek. ‘You look lovely.’

‘You too,’ she says briskly. ‘That’s a very pretty dress.’ Reed thin and wearing a peach blouse and immaculate navy blue trouser suit, she eyes my pistachio Ghost dress. I still love it, despite it being of a similar vintage to Guinness, who’s reappeared, still being cradled by Rosie as she greets her grandma. I reassure myself that a girl who still adores her bunny is unlikely to have her head turned by a load of coke-hoovering fashion types.

I also note that Will appears to have acquired a new jumper at some point during his trip to collect Gloria, which is odd. Even stranger, it’s identical to the one I bought for his birthday.

‘Present from Mum,’ he says, giving me a wink. ‘She wanted to make sure it fitted.’

‘Doesn’t it suit him?’ she observes.

‘Er, yes, it really does,’ I reply, trying to keep down a smirk. ‘You have lovely taste, Gloria.’

She smiles and eagerly snatches the glass of wine he offers her. ‘Now you mustn’t keep topping me up, Will.’ Enthusiastic sip. ‘I’m not supposed to be drinking, you know. My nutritionist …’ Massive gulp. ‘Mmm, it does smell good in here …’

‘All Will’s work,’ I explain. ‘He’s doing roast chicken and all these clever things with vegetables. Me and Rosie have been out shopping …’

‘… Spending your money, Will?’ she titters, a comment so clearly ill-chosen it causes sweat to spring from my armpits. ‘Oh, I know you work hard, Charlotte,’ she adds, ‘at that … place.’ You’d think, by the accompanying curl of her lip, that she means a sauna or lapdancing club. In fact it’s a crisp factory in Essex. A posh crisp factory, I might add, offering fancy varieties such as crushed pink peppercorn and the alarming-sounding lobster bisque. It’s all very upmarket. In fact we don’t even call them crisps but hand-cooked potato chips. But they’re still basically fried potatoes, and my job is to market them. I am a flogger of fat-drenched Maris Pipers coming in at around 1025 calories per family pack, and Gloria, whose diet appears to consist mainly of Chilean sauvignon and the occasional olive, cannot bring herself to speak of it.

‘So how is the job-hunting going, Will?’ she asks, turning to her son.

‘Really well, thanks,’ Will replies, peering through the oven’s glass door.

‘Any interviews yet?’

I see his jaw tighten as he straightens up. Now I realise why he invited Gloria over this evening instead of tomorrow. While he’s always been happy to take care of her – especially since his father died four years ago – he couldn’t face being grilled about his future career plans on his actual birthday. ‘I’m sure something’ll come up soon,’ he replies firmly as Ollie and I set the kitchen table and Rosie returns Guinness to the utility room.

‘Have you thought about the police force?’ Gloria asks, glugging more wine.

Will grimaces. ‘It’s not quite my area of expertise, Mum.’

‘I know that,’ she concedes, ‘but they have excellent training and pension schemes …’

‘Isn’t Dad a bit old to be a cop?’ Ollie asks.

‘Thanks, Ollie,’ Will chuckles, giving me a look.

‘Well, I’m sure they do a mature entry scheme,’ she goes on, clearly an expert in such matters. ‘Or what about the prison service?’

‘Dad can’t work in a prison!’ Rosie exclaims with a loud guffaw.

Gloria frowns. ‘Why not?’

‘Because …’ Rosie smirks. ‘I just … can’t imagine it.’

‘Working with a load of murderers,’ Ollie adds, eyes widening. ‘That’d be interesting, wouldn’t it, Dad?’

‘Fascinating,’ Will agrees, turning his attention to a saucepan of gravy on the hob.

‘But what if he was attacked?’ Rosie asks. ‘Can you imagine Dad managing to fight someone off?’ Both she and Ollie peal with laughter.

‘Well, er, I’d imagine that’s not necessary,’ Gloria says curtly.

‘He’d be scared witless,’ Ollie adds.

‘Thanks, everyone,’ Will cuts in, pushing back his dark hair with an oven-gloved hand. ‘I do appreciate all your career advice but don’t worry, I actually have everything under control …’ Really? I’d love to believe it’s true. He brightens as Liza arrives, greeting us with a bottle of wine and hugs all round – even Gloria, as if she’s an old friend – and having the miraculous effect of instantly lightening the atmosphere. Fair and pretty with a slim, boyish body, Liza looks a decade younger than her fifty-two years. She never bothers with make-up beyond a lick of mascara. Her lilac embroidered top and skinny jeans were probably thrown on, but she looks radiant and lovely. Liza calls herself a ‘slasher’; i.e., Spanish-teacher-slash-yoga-instructor-slash-wholefood-store-employee. Her life is full and varied and she seems to thrive on it. I start to relax as we catch up on each other’s news; unlike Gloria, Liza knows to avoid quizzing Will directly about his job hunt.

‘So, how are you, Rosie?’ she asks as Will and I bring a myriad of dishes to the table.

Rosie grins, taking the seat next to her. ‘I got scouted today. A woman from an agency thought I could be a model.’

‘Wow!’ Liza looks impressed. ‘Are you going to do it?’

‘Yeah, of course,’ she exclaims.

‘Well, um, we still need to talk about that,’ I say quickly.

‘I was the same,’ Liza remarks, smiling her thanks as Will fills her wine glass. ‘Freaked out when Scarlett first mentioned it. Remember she entered that competition without telling me? And then only went and won?’

I laugh. ‘But you knew she could look after herself …’

‘… And so can Rosie.’ She turns to my daughter. ‘You’ll be fine, honey. You’ll be an amazing model …’

‘It’s not a fait accompli, Liza,’ Will remarks.

‘Oh, Dad.’ Rosie rolls her eyes. ‘You did some modelling, didn’t you, Grandma? Weren’t you in pageants or something when you were young?’

Gloria purses her lips. ‘That’s the American term. We called them beauty contests and yes, I did take part in a few …’

‘You’re beautiful, Gloria,’ Liza says truthfully. ‘I can imagine you all glammed up.’

‘Wasn’t it fun?’ Rosie asks. Gloria pauses to tip the rest of her wine down her throat, seemingly without making any swallowing motion at all.

‘No,’ she says finally, ‘it certainly wasn’t.’

We all stare at her. ‘Why not?’ Ollie asks.

‘Was it horribly pressurised?’ Will enquires gently. ‘I can imagine it was a very competitive world.’

She emits a little cough, as if preparing to make an important announcement. ‘No, it wasn’t that. I was very successful actually. I was Miss Foil Wrap in 1972 …’ To avoid an attack of the giggles, I focus hard on the deliciousness of Will’s glazed carrots.

‘What’s foil wrap?’ Ollie wants to know.

‘You know, foil,’ I explain, ‘like you wrap a chicken in.’

Confused, Ollie peers at her. ‘Why did they have a “Miss Foil Wrap”?’

‘I was a brand ambassador,’ Gloria says grandly. ‘For the sashing ceremony I wore a dress entirely made of foil.’

‘Wow,’ Rosie breathes. ‘Bet that was amazing.’

‘Very futuristic,’ Will says with a grin, but Gloria’s face has clouded. Maybe she thinks he’s taking the piss. She has that effect: of making those around her feel intensely uncomfortable, without actually doing very much. I note that, while the rest of us have been tucking into Will’s delicious roast dinner, she has consumed a sliver of chicken roughly the size of a fingernail clipping.

‘Actually,’ she says, ‘it wasn’t. An unfortunate incident happened, but I don’t want to talk about it in front of the children.’ Now, of course, we’re all agog.

‘We’re not children,’ Rosie points out gently. ‘I’m sixteen, Grandma. I’m not shockable, honest …’

Gloria shakes her head and pushes away her plate.

‘Did the foil rip?’ Ollie asks. ‘Did everyone see your—’

‘Ollie,’ I say sharply, although I’m as keen as he is to hear the story. ‘Just leave it, love. I don’t think Grandma wants to—’

‘I mean,’ he goes on, mouth crammed with roast potato, ‘foil’s just thin aluminium. We did the properties of metals at school. I s’pose it’s good for a dress, though, ’cause it doesn’t rust …’

Will clears his throat. ‘I think we can move on from the foil now, Ollie.’

‘No,’ Gloria says tersely, ‘it’s quite all right. I will tell you what happened, but only because I hope it’ll serve as a warning to Rosie.’

A rapt silence descends, interrupted only by the rustle of Guinness shuffling about in his box. ‘Grandma …?’ Rosie prompts her.

Gloria twiddles her empty glass. ‘I was accosted.’

‘You mean during a contest?’ I gasp, wishing now that we’d never brought this up.

‘No, at a photo call,’ Gloria explains. ‘All the local papers were there. Everyone. It was a major event. All the reporters wanted to talk to me. And there was a nasty little man from the Sorrington Bugle …’

I glance at Will in alarm. Poor Gloria. She’s clearly harboured an unspeakable secret all these years. Maybe that’s what’s caused her to develop a rather critical edge.

‘Mum,’ Will says, ‘you needn’t talk about it. We don’t want to stir up horrible memories for you.’

She peers down at her lap. ‘It’s okay. If Rosie’s even considering modelling, then I think she should know about this …’

‘What did the man do?’ Ollie asks eagerly, tilting his head.

‘He … poked me.’

Oh, Christ. Does that mean what I think it means? Now I’m slugging my wine, Gloria-style.

‘Where?’ Rosie asks, aghast.

‘In the car park in front of everybody.’

‘With his Sorrington Bugle?’ Ollie blurts out, crumpling with laughter.

‘Ollie!’ I bark at him. ‘It’s not funny, you know, being poked—’

‘I mean where in the body, Grandma,’ Rosie explains as I top up the adults’ glasses with wine, except for Will’s, as he’s driving his mother home to East Finchley later. I catch him eyeing the wine bottle greedily.

‘In the bottom, darling,’ Gloria replies, mouthing the word bottom in the way that people say tumour.

‘Were you still wearing the aluminium dress?’ Ollie asks.

‘Yes, that’s right—’

‘Did he make a hole in it with his finger?’

‘Ollie, that’s enough, thank you,’ Will says firmly. ‘I think we’ve heard all we need to about the dress.’

‘So, um … is that why you gave up, Grandma?’ Rosie asks, clearly having difficulty keeping a straight face.

‘Well, no,’ Gloria replies. ‘I became a Mum. Will was my priority and of course, my figure was never the same after that …’

Will catches my eye. Sorry, he mouths, making me smile.

‘So now you know what can happen in the modelling world,’ Gloria adds. ‘It’s not safe, Rosie. There are people out there who’ll want to take advantage of a beautiful young girl like you.’

Rosie turns to me with a stricken face.

‘Of course, Gloria,’ Liza starts, ‘no one should think it’s acceptable to behave in that way …’

‘I agree,’ Will cuts in, ‘so, obviously, Rosie shouldn’t get involved.’

‘What?’ she gasps. ‘You mean we can’t even go to the agency?’

‘Well,’ he starts, ‘I don’t think it’s—’

‘Dad, that’s not fair! Please!’

He frowns, catching my eye in a silent plea for me to back him up.

‘Horrible little man,’ Gloria mutters. ‘I always remember he wore a banana yellow tie—’

‘I can’t believe this,’ Rosie cries. ‘No one cares what I think. You’re all discussing this as if it was nothing to do with me at all!’

‘Rosie,’ I say quickly, ‘we’ll talk about this later, okay?’

‘Dad’s saying no,’ she wails, ‘because of something that happened, like, fifty years ago!’

‘Forty-three actually,’ Gloria murmurs, placing her cutlery neatly on her plate.

Rosie doesn’t appear to have heard her. ‘For God’s sake, Dad. Things are different now …’

‘Yeah,’ Ollie cuts in. ‘Everyone was a perv in the seventies. It was on the news, they’ve got this thing called Operation Yew Tree where they’re rounding them all up—’

‘Good God,’ Will mutters as we clear the table together and he sets down the chocolate cake he made earlier. While it’s normally one of my favourite things, right now I’m not sure I can stomach a crumb. What on earth made me think it would be helpful to chat to Gloria about modelling?

‘This looks amazing,’ Liza enthuses, darting me a quick look. I glance at Rosie, whose eyes are brimming with tears.

‘Mum,’ she mutters, glaring at Will’s cake as if he’d scraped it up off the pavement, ‘tell Dad how nice Laurie was.’

I look at both of them, trapped in the middle as I so often seem to be these days. They adore each other, but recently, during their frequent spats, I’ve noticed Will stepping carefully around Rosie as if she were made of the finest porcelain. And I’ve begun to suspect that there’s something else she wants to add, but doesn’t quite dare: You’re not my real dad so you can’t tell me what to do.

‘The seventies were well weird,’ Ollie continues cheerfully. ‘Everyone wore massive flares and there was this programme on telly with these little pink creatures on another planet. We saw it at the TV museum. They didn’t even speak …’

‘The Clangers,’ I mutter.

‘All paedos,’ Ollie observes.

‘The Clangers weren’t paedos,’ I retort. ‘They were innocent little knitted mice …’

Liza turns to Gloria. ‘Er, I don’t mean to belittle your experience, and I’m sure it was traumatic …’ Gloria nods. ‘… But my daughter Scarlett did some modelling too, before she went to Bristol. She had a fantastic time and saved all her earnings and she’s paying her own way through university. It’s meant she hasn’t had to take out a loan.’

Rosie’s eyes widen. ‘Wasn’t she in some catalogues?’

Liza nods. ‘Yes. Boden, mostly—’

‘Boden?’ I repeat. ‘I didn’t know that.’ Liza has always played down Scarlett’s foray into modelling. It had been over very quickly, as far as I could gather; now I suspect she just didn’t want to seem boastful.

Liza nods proudly. ‘She still does the occasional job, but only in holiday time and it doesn’t get in the way of her studies at all.’ She smiles at Gloria. ‘She’s studying English and Philosophy …’

‘I’m not saying it’s all bad,’ Gloria says reluctantly.

‘And the beauty of it is,’ Liza continues, ‘all her friends have bar jobs or are waitressing, and Scarlett hasn’t had to do any of that.’

A hush fills our over-heated kitchen. ‘I could pay my own way through vet school,’ Rosie remarks.

‘Well,’ I say carefully, ‘it sounds like Scarlett’s had a really good experience.’

Liza nods. ‘Yes, she has. D’you want to see some of her pictures?’ She laughs. ‘Sorry, I’m such an embarrassing mum. She’d hate me for this …’

‘Go on,’ I urge her, ‘I’d love to see.’ She fetches her phone from her bag and we all cluster round it. The pictures are from a Boden shoot; sunny and smiley with Scarlett’s corn-coloured hair blowing across her freckled face.

‘She looks amazing,’ Rosie exclaims.

‘Well, I think so,’ Liza says with a grin.

She scrolls through pictures of Scarlett scampering through the dunes and balancing, with arms outstretched, on a fallen-down tree. ‘Aren’t they great?’ I enthuse, shooting a quick look at Will.

He nods, seeing as I do that Scarlett is wearing the least provocative items of clothing known to womankind: a polo neck sweater. Jolly spotty wellies. A duffel coat, for goodness’ sake. Could anything be more wholesome? ‘So it’s really been okay?’ Will asks her. ‘I mean, nothing awful’s happened?’

‘Of course not,’ Liza replies. ‘If it had, I’d have put a stop to it. Anyway, it’s not as if she was a timid thirteen-year-old. She was eighteen when she started …’

‘Rosie’s only sixteen,’ I remind her.

‘Yes, Mum,’ Rosie groans, ‘and in Viking times I’d have at least seven children by now.’

‘God forbid,’ Will splutters, and even Gloria emits a wry chuckle.

I catch her eye as she prods at her cake with a fork. ‘Look, I do understand what you’re saying, Gloria, about the foil dress poking. And I know you’re only concerned. But from what Liza’s said about Scarlett’s experience … well, maybe we shouldn’t just dismiss it.’

Liza nods. ‘It really improved her confidence and she met some lovely people. Honestly, it’s been an amazing opportunity for her …’

I smile and turn to Will. ‘I think the final decision should actually rest with Rosie … don’t you, darling?’

‘Dad, please,’ Rosie blurts out. ‘I can look after myself. I’m not an idiot …’

He frowns at me. ‘But I thought we said—’

‘We didn’t say anything,’ I cut in, ‘because we haven’t actually found out what it might entail. How about I call the agency on Monday? We can at least all go in for a chat.’

‘You mean all of us,’ Rosie asks, aghast, ‘like a family outing?’

I nod firmly. ‘Absolutely. Well, Ollie could go to a friend’s …’

Will stares. ‘You mean me? You’re saying I’ve got to come too?’

‘Yes. You obviously have concerns so I think it’s important that you’re there, don’t you?’

‘Er, I don’t think …’

‘You’re coming, Will,’ I say, surprising myself with my bossiness.

He gives me a look as if he’s about to protest, then busies himself by fetching more wine from the fridge.

‘Why, Mum?’ Rosie cries. ‘This’ll be so embarrassing!’

‘Because we’re your family and we love you,’ I say brightly, giving Liza a wink across the table as I refill her glass.

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