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out.’ Diane stretched absently, putting her hands behind her head and making her shoulder bones crack, the fabric of the loose satiny top tightening against her body.
    Tamzin was horrified to catch James all too obviously blinking his gaze back up to Diane’s face.
    Diane dropping her arms. Suddenly.
    And James blushing as hot and red as a chilli.
    Oh gross! Tamzin felt the sting of mortified tears. Her father had looked with that lips-parted expression men reserve for breasts – and let Diane catch him. And they were looking at each other and then not looking, glances flitting around the room like birds with no perches, before their gazes tangled once more.
    ‘Because of the money,’ Tamzin blurted, to deflect attention from James’s cringeworthy behaviour.
    Diane’s gaze flicked back to Tamzin. ‘Money?’
    ‘Pops gave him money.’ Tamzin’s voice shook.
    Diane’s body flexed and quivered as if silently absorbing a blow. Her eyes grew enormous. ‘Gareth would never accept charity. He wouldn’t claim low-income benefit, even, when our daughter was younger.’
    Decisively, James jumped to his feet. ‘Then obviously we’re mistaken.’
    Diane continued speaking to Tamzin, as if they were old friends, her eyes intent, yet vulnerable. ‘Do you know how much?’
    Tamzin hesitated. ‘I don’t know a figure.’
    ‘Roughly? Please?’
    Anxious tears were building and building. And if she cried, Diane would feel sorry for her, might slide her arms around her and stroke her hair. She might like Diane to stroke her hair. But she wouldn’t like Diane to feel sorry for her. She swallowed hard. ‘Quite a bit, I think. Plus the cottage.’
    Diane flinched. Dawn was bursting through the kitchen window now, lighting up Diane’s hair pink-apricot. Her skin was soft and clear, the lines fine at the corners of her eyes. Valerie’s grooves were deeper, but then Valerie wasn’t exactly a health freak and the puckers around her lips told of all the cigarettes she’d smoked, no matter how much stuff she had injected. Diane’s face was young but her hands were old; rough and red and work-worn where Valerie’s were soft and manicured –
    ‘What cottage?’ Diane’s voice was a whisper.
    James answered this time, his voice deep and gentle. ‘On the outskirts of Whittlesey.’ He hesitated. ‘Harold’s owned it for years. Apparently he once bought it for Gareth’s mother.’
    Diane’s eyes emptied. There was a long silence. Slowly, she touched Tamzin’s hand. ‘Thanks. I won’t keep you if you want to get off to bed now.’ A tear welled and skittered down her cheek. She batted it away with the back of her hand, lurching to her feet and turning blindly.
    Tamzin scraped back her chair, seeing a danger with sudden appalling clarity. ‘Careful!’
    But James was already there, snatching at Diane before her hand made contact with the chrome kettle. As if it was one shock too many, Diane piped out a sound between a laugh and a sob. And, without either of them seeming to do more than sway, James’s comforting arms were around Diane and Diane’s head was on his shoulder, and James was pushing her plait out of the way so that he could pat her back, murmuring that he was sorry that she’d had so many bolts from the blue and Diane hiccupping that it was hardly his fault.
    Tamzin returned slowly to her chair. Her father was well weird, the way he seemed to be able to care for just about everybody in the world.

Chapter Three
    Diane dialled carefully, preparing for that little pain at hearing Bryony’s voice, so real, clear, dear and familiar, when she was actually so heartbreakingly far away.
    But Bryony had to be told about Gareth before she disappeared off to work at the orphanage.
    She gripped the handset. A succession of clicks. The ringing tone. It rang for a long time but it was six in the morning in Brasilia, although ten a.m. in Purtenon St. Paul. One of the girls Bryony shared with answered eventually with a