Homecoming

Book 0: A Highcap Mystery

by Isabel Ashdown

Genres: Psychological Thrillers

Synopsis

'Dark, insidious, unsettling, fabulous' Sharon Bolton

'Couldn't stop reading this compelling novel of scandals and affairs at the heart of seemingly idyllic seaside community. Great characters, setting, and a deliciously dark mystery at its heart.' Essie Fox

'You're immersed in an imaginary world that still feels very real - right down to the actual Dorset settings sprinkled throughout. The story twists and turns in a way that makes it both enjoyable to read and impossible to guess the ending' Dorset Magazine

'Staff Recommend HOMECOMING - this psychological thriller will keep you guessing till the end' Dorset Libraries

'Neatly plotted and totally engaging - it's another Ashdown triumph' Sussex Life

'Serious Big Little Lies vibes... Read in one sitting, it was so hard to put down... The author creates the perfect setting, full of tension and suspense, leaving the reader wanting more... Would highly recommend.' NetGalley Reviewer, 5 stars

Welcome to The Starlings... sun, sea and neighbours to die for.

Security, a sparkling sea view and the best kind of neighbours - The Starlings gated community has it all. Here, doors are left open, children run free, and at the heart of it all is the entrepreneurial Gold Family, who first dreamed up this aspirational vision of 'Dorset's Safest Community'. To the outside world the popular family appears glitteringly blessed... until an idyllic party takes a dark turn and one of their number is found slumped at the foot of the clocktower. Who knows what really happened? And what answers are harboured within the old building, the former Highcap Mother and Baby Home?'

A mesmerising, character-rich thriller with a long-buried secret vibrating at its core: this is Isabel Ashdown at her heart-stopping best, for readers who enjoyed Big Little Lies, Doctor Foster or Little Fires Everywhere.

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 304

Sample

Present day

No one in The Starlings, least of all Katrin Gold, could ever have imagined things would end this way: that their safely gated sea-view community would be the scene of such a shocking crime.

Since the start of the year, everyone had been looking forward to the private estate’s first anniversary party, and after months of neighbourly plotting and planning the day had arrived, along with a lively five-piece jazz band and a vintage ice-cream van. Even the sun had turned up, unseasonably hot for the end of May, and the laughter flowed as easily as the champagne as the generations bonded over a barbecue on the lawns, and young parents did their best to ignore their sugar-fuelled offspring, who tore about the gardens, unchecked. Bordering the circular green, the red-brick horseshoe of the Victorian mansion block loomed large, its central clocktower gazing proudly across the lawns towards the majestic modern home of Bill and Katrin Gold, whose vision had transformed the abandoned site into this idyll they now called The Starlings. All around, giant daisies and alliums bloomed, their heads nodding brightly in the light sea breeze, and many were heard complimenting the work of old Thomas who had, until recently, tended those flowerbeds with such devotion. When the local press arrived to photograph the event at midday, there must have been a hundred happy neighbours arranged beside the ornamental koi pond as the band played on. Under the eye of the imposing clocktower, handsome young families stood shoulder-to-shoulder with respected elders, while cross-legged teenagers sat in the front row, straight teeth dazzling as they thrust their peace signs towards the endless blue sky. Frida, of course, was one of them. The photograph should make that week’s edition of the Highcap Press, the young journalist informed Katrin as he hurried off to his next assignment, not knowing then that another, far more prominent story about The Starlings would instead take its place.

As afternoon slid into evening and a kaftan-clad Ginny wafted around the fairy-lit courtyard, topping up the drinks of the dozen or so tipsy adults remaining, everyone agreed: the day had been an unparalleled success, a day of nothing but good feeling and happy memories made. Most of those still up were the couples with children old enough to put themselves to bed, and, now that the band had packed up and the sun was going down, they’d all moved to the courtyard at the rear of the residential block, where their laughter and chat wouldn’t disturb those who’d already turned in. Belinda Parsons was there with her daughter Poppy, as were Graham and Dylan from No.21, Michael and Joy Bassett and of course the Gold family, with the exception of Frida, who was now minding the little ones back at Starling House. Anne Ashbourne had retired a little while earlier, with her mother who was visiting from the care home for the weekend – but otherwise, all the founding residents were there to reflect on their first year at The Starlings. Aren’t we lucky, Hugo remarked as he set down his tumbler and pulled his willowy wife to his lap, to live in a place like this? His heavy-eyed older brother tilted his glass in agreement and knocked back his tipple in a single gulp. Amélie, already rake-thin only weeks after giving birth to her little boy, rested her head against Hugo’s like a sleepy cat. C’est vrai, she replied. We ARE lucky, mon cher. Not even the recent gossip surrounding the family had been able to mar the occasion, and certainly, to anyone looking on, the day itself, honeysuckle-scented on a warm sea breeze, could only be described as perfect.

Perfect, that was, until now.

Now, it is just a few minutes after nine, and everything has changed.

In the distance, emergency sirens peal into the night air, their cries growing closer, as a darkening starling cloud swirls and blooms in the crimson sky above the clocktower at the heart of the community. Years from now, residents will talk of that red sky, of the unseasonal spectacle of starlings dancing in May and the ominous feeling that crept over each of them, the remaining friends and neighbours enjoying Ginny’s nightcap, when they first noticed that one of their number was missing. Of course, it will be impossible to know later whether that feeling of dread truly existed before the incident, or was falsely inserted into those recollections in the grim moments that followed Frida Pascal’s night-splitting scream.

I knew something was wrong, an ashen-faced husband will tell the investigating officer, standing on a path ablaze with spinning yellow lights, while squad car doors slam, and uniformed officers secure the area. She’d been gone for almost an hour; I should have looked for her sooner. A week or two from now, neighbours he once considered friends will question his depth of feeling, his potential culpability – his possible motive – and he will wonder, in his sleepless nights, what the correct response should have been. But, right now, those same neighbours look on, shock-faced around the green, edging as close to the nightmare as the hastily erected police tape will allow. Others who had already retired to put young ones or themselves to bed are gazing from their overlooking windows or emerging from cosily backlit doorways to investigate, and for a short while no one has a clue what the drama is really all about.

Because things like this just don’t happen at The Starlings.

Taking a moment to gather herself in the shade of the clocktower, Katrin looked out across the bunting-festooned courtyard, security gates flung wide, and felt a wave of nervous anticipation at the task ahead.

This was it, the moment she’d been working towards – the official opening of her most ambitious and certainly most personal project to date. The Starlings. After five tireless years of negotiation, planning and reconstruction, this forty-one-home gated community was now rising from the ashes of Highcap’s long-forgotten Victorian hospital. Reborn, The Starlings presented a perfect union of heritage restoration and comfortable contemporary living – and with its unequalled views of sea and hilltop, situated on the edge of a vibrant market town, it really was a location to inspire and aspire to. It would be, she would reiterate to prospective buyers today, Dorset’s safest community. That was what her marketing materials and the polished plaque on the brick entrance pillar promised, a guarantee she intended to make good on once the community was up and running.

All she needed to do now was find her residents, which, with a fair wind, she would do today, she told herself, in spite of her racing pulse and nagging self-doubt. Yes. Today, Katrin would find her buyers, secure her family’s future, and together they would live there happily ever after. That was the goal. That was the vision. That was the dream. That had always been Katrin’s dream.

Overhead, a lone seagull cut through the cloudless blue sky as the wall-mounted speakers either end of the north wall crackled into life, and ‘Sunny’ played out via the sound system rigged up in the lodge cottage adjoining the front gate. A few seconds later, old Thomas appeared from behind the rose-flanked door, theatrically cupping one hand over his ear, until she gave him the thumbs-up and he shuffled back inside again, like a weathervane man with no matching wife. Facing Thomas’s house, just inside the entrance gates, a small white gazebo was set up, where Belinda Parsons and her daughter Poppy were busy laying out nibbles and prosecco glasses in readiness for the first guests.

To the obvious dismay of her daughter, Belinda’s hands shot up into the air in response to the music. ‘Any sign of Amélie?’ she called over.

‘No sign of her yet!’ Katrin replied with a shrug. Bloody Amélie; she should never have asked her to help – she’d only done it as a favour to Hugo, who had a theory that his wife’s problems would all miraculously vanish if she had a bit less time on her hands. Katrin wasn’t so sure. Some people could never be relied on; some people were too wrapped up in themselves. ‘She’ll turn up!’ she added with a casual wave, and Belinda returned a sympathetic smile. There weren’t that many people who actually liked her sister-in-law, Katrin realised, and she wondered briefly what it was that Hugo had seen in her when they’d met – apart from the obvious.

Alongside the main path, Anne Ashbourne, dowdy in flat brown loafers and a calf-length floral number, was securing large cardboard arrows to direct visitors to the clocktower entrance, where there was a brief photographic history of the sanatorium, pinned up on the sealed wooden door to distract from the fact that it wasn’t yet safe to enter. Even from here, Katrin could see the anxiety pouring off the woman as she fiddled with the signage ties, repeatedly pushing her wire-rimmed glasses up her little pink nose only to have them slide right down again. Poor old Anne; she was like a bad advertisement for life over forty, a milestone Katrin was rapidly approaching herself. God, shoot me if I ever give up the fight like that, Katrin thought, immediately hating herself for being so mean. Anne might not be particularly sophisticated, but she was a good person, an incredibly bright woman, and as a published historian she brought a positive spin to the Starlings development. And boy, did they need a positive spin if potential buyers were to look beyond the dark past of the site to imagine a shiny new future for themselves within these walls. First impressions were going to be everything, and that was why the whole family were meant to be present at the 2pm meet-and-greet. The Gold family: Katrin and Bill, family-first stars of the show, she pretty and persuasive, he twenty years her senior but still disarmingly handsome, their twin boys a credit to their good parenting; and Hugo, Katrin’s business partner and brother-in-law, a darker, more boyish version of his older sibling, with his wife Amélie at his side, captivating them all with her ex-model looks and exaggerated French accent, her lovely teenage daughter Frida in tow.

That was the plan, but the others were nowhere to be seen. Katrin checked her phone again and pinged off another text to Bill. Where are you?!

On the far side of the square, Frida, back from boarding school early, was pulling the twins around in their bright red Radio wagon, causing them to squeal as she rounded the ornamental pond on two tyres, looking set to tip them into the lavender before righting the cart at the last minute. Ted was sitting up front crying out for more, like a tiny blond gladiator, while behind him his opposite, Max, had one chubby hand clamped over his mouth, feigning terror. The four-year-olds were completely lost to their pretty big cousin, and it suddenly struck Katrin just how much the girl had grown up since she’d last headed off to school in the New Year, dressed in her private girls’ school uniform and still looking every bit the teenager she was. Now, Katrin observed, with her fawn-like legs – too, too long in that short, short skirt – with her nipped-in waist and platform trainers, her black curls worn loose, the fifteen-year-old could pass for several years older, and an ancient fear tugged at Katrin’s guts, threatening her with unwanted images from her own distant past.

‘Frida!’ She beckoned across the courtyard.

With the boys still in tow, Katrin’s niece broke into a jog, limbs moving with a kind of graceful gawkiness, one arm pulling the boys, the other swinging free. She was now, Katrin noted, a good inch taller than her. Frida set the wagon down and draped her arms around her aunt’s shoulders in an unexpected embrace.

‘Are you OK, Auntie Kat?’ she asked, stepping back, studying Katrin’s face. ‘No need to be nervous – I’m not saying you are or anything, but – anyway, you’ll kill it. You look like a celeb.’

Katrin threw her head back and laughed, reaching out to pat Frida’s cheek. ‘You’re still a big idiot, I see.’

‘Hey!’ Frida planted her hands on her hips, looking her aunt’s outfit over. ‘I’m serious. You could be a dragon, you know? Like on Dragons’ Den – on the TV. Verr-rry stylish. Dressed to impress.’

It was true: Katrin had put much thought into her launch outfit, a smartly fitted power dress in midnight blue, bought just last week on a rare shopping trip to the city, away from Bill and the kids for an entire day. While there, she’d had her dark blonde locks expensively highlighted, her nails French manicured, and her face scrubbed, buffed, micro-cleansed to within an inch of its thirty-nine-year-old life. Bill had taught her many years earlier that you must dress for the job you want, not the one you have, and here she was now, happy, affluent, and dressing for the job she’d wanted and got. Despite everything that had been against her from the start, Katrin had survived, and she was now at the helm of Gold Property, a vibrant family-run business already up for several heritage awards – and, if today was a success, on the brink of turning a fine profit. Katrin had every reason to feel confident. Yes.

‘Thanks, sweetheart,’ she said, taking up Frida’s hand to kiss her on the knuckles, a distraction from the heavy thumping deep inside her chest. ‘Now do me a favour and find out where your mum has got to. She’s meant to be here for the meet-and-greet, and people are going to start arriving in half an hour.’

At the pond, the twins had now clambered on to the low perimeter wall to chase one another in dizzying circles. Ted halted suddenly and stumbled, before hitting the cobbles with a dull thud. ‘Maaaaaa-aax!’ he screamed furiously, tugging at his brother’s trouser leg until he successfully brought him down too. Katrin stared at the tangle of them, inwardly cursing her conveniently absent husband as she checked her watch and wondered how she ever got a thing done without the blessed help of their weekday nursery. Too bad it was the weekend.

‘Shall I take the boys with me?’ Frida asked, already gathering them up. ‘I don’t mind, honest – I haven’t seen them for months. It’ll be nice.’

‘Oh, Frida, you’re a lifesaver!’ Katrin exhaled gratefully, already striding away. ‘Remember, tell Amélie to get over here asap. We kick off at 2pm sharp! And if you see Bill, give him a kick in my direction, will you? He and Hugo went into town this morning, and they should’ve been back by now.’

Frida rolled her eyes and made a drinking gesture with one hand, before charging off with the boys either side of her, all three of them arms outstretched like bomber planes about to do battle.

At the entrance, a couple of early arrivals were already dawdling by the gates.

‘Jesus, Bill, where the hell are you?’ Katrin muttered to herself, before shining a broad bright smile on her first potential buyers. ‘Hello! Lovely to see you! I’m Katrin Gold – are you here for the Open Day?’ She approached them as though welcoming old friends, and their uncertain faces lit up in response. ‘We’ll be ready to invite you in properly in about twenty minutes,’ she told the couple. ‘But in the meantime, I’ll leave you with Belinda, who’ll talk you through the brochure and offer you some refreshments.’

Beyond the gates, Hugo’s open-top Audi sped into view. Bill was in the back seat, one stylishly crumpled linen-clad arm draped over the side, his silver waves tousled, looking every bit as though he’d been on some great adventure. In the passenger seat beside Hugo was a woman Katrin had never seen before, platinum blonde beneath a Liberty silk headscarf, Audrey Hepburn shades covering a well-preserved face of indeterminate age. She could be anything from late fifties to early sixties, Katrin thought. It was so hard to tell these days, especially when you had money, as this woman clearly did.

‘Katrin!’ Bill beamed as the car idled a moment on the path. ‘We’ve scooped up another punter for you! Ginny, meet Katrin – she’s the one you need to impress if you want to get your name down for a place.’

As Hugo held the door for her, the woman stepped out of the car and removed her scarf with a little tug at her chin. ‘Darling, aren’t you just beautiful?’

That morning, Ginny hadn’t intended to stick around in Highcap town centre any longer than it took to sign the legal papers, but somehow, with the sun shining overhead and the positive lift that came from the finality of one door closing, she had allowed nostalgia to lure her on to the high street.

It was a Saturday, and the pavements were packed with market traders and buskers, with young families browsing stalls, and locals chatting outside coffee shops. Gaggles of beachy-haired teenagers weaved through the crowds on skateboards, dodging toddlers and walking sticks and dogs. So many dogs! The air smelled of freshly ground coffee and cinnamon buns, of lavender soap and freshly cut mint, of car fumes and sun lotion, and – there – the distant whiff of the harbour blowing in from the shore. It was a scent so familiar to Ginny, she was immediately transported back to that earlier time, both to the good of it and the bad, intertwined as they had become with the passing of years.

Momentarily overwhelmed, she had paused in the shade of an estate agent’s awning, facing out on to the square, where a colourful folk band played, and onlookers chatted in good-humoured clusters. Across the square, two men, one silver-haired, one dark, both strikingly handsome, appeared from the doorway of the Knotsman’s Arms and strode across the busy thoroughfare in Ginny’s direction. Brothers, she guessed by their close resemblance and gait, though clearly several years apart. As they passed through the entrance to the estate agent’s, Ginny found herself turning to browse the properties displayed in its window, checking off those she recognised against those she did not. Several new housing estates had popped up, beige-bricked monstrosities with names like Sunshine Way and Twiner’s Fields. Some of the run-down council houses were now being marketed as ‘investment’ opportunities, and several of the town’s rope mills had been converted into studio flats and maisonettes. On the top row were the million-plus properties, including the now derelict White Rise out near Golden Cap, which had just gone at auction for two point five million.

‘Excuse me, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but are you in the property-buying market?’ It was the older brother, now leaning out on the door frame and grinning rakishly. ‘Because if you are, we’ve got a series of premium homes just going on the market today. The location is out of this world, and, well, you look like exactly the kind of resident we’re hoping to attract.’

It was flattery that got Ginny inside the estate agent’s office, but it was morbid curiosity that had her agree to a viewing.

As the car sped along that familiar road towards The Starlings, Ginny felt something inside of her give way, for just a second or two, as the familiar shape of the Victorian building rose up on the horizon.

‘There she is!’ the younger of the brothers said, gesturing towards the old hospital. ‘What a beauty, eh?’

‘Just wait till you get inside,’ the silver-haired one added from the back seat. ‘My brother and I have already moved our own families in, so we’re hoping to “hand-pick” our neighbours, for want of a better phrase. I hope you know I wasn’t being insincere when I said you’re the kind of resident we’re hoping to attract.’

Ginny laughed then, and turned to raise an eyebrow at him, not once betraying the fact that this wouldn’t be her first visit to the site of the Highcap Sanatorium. ‘And what kind of resident is that, darling?’

At No.1 The Starlings, Frida was in the living room with her twin cousins Max and Ted, scrolling through the kids’ channels until she landed on their favourite and hers, SpongeBob SquarePants.

The two boys were seated like bookends on the cream leather sofa, a plastic tub of popcorn between them, their faces zoned-out. Frida had finally worn them out, playing chase on the green for the past half-hour, and she was now in need of a change of clothes after a well-fought tussle had made grass-stains on her favourite skirt. Beyond the front window, Anne Ashbourne was hurrying with a clipboard along the sunny east path, but, other than her, the close was empty. Strange to think that within the hour The Starlings would be buzzing with new people, people who might even end up being their neighbours. Maybe some of them would be Frida’s age.

Checking her phone, she could see that both Meg and Rose had read her last message to them, sent two hours earlier. Read, but not responded. She certainly could do with a new friend, she thought with a sinking sense of desolation. Someone to confide in, someone to help her work out how to deal with the mess she was making of her life right now. Maybe this would be one of those Sliding Doors moments people talked about, when things would change for the better in a single instant, with just one look or a word from stranger.

She should get changed, she decided, look her best, just in case. Giving her goggle-eyed cousins a parting glance, Frida headed out to the front hall, where the familiar sound of the Dyson starting up on the first floor told her they weren’t alone in the house.

‘Hi, Cathy,’ she called out, spotting the cleaner on the landing as she ascended the stairs. ‘You seen Mum anywhere? Auntie Kat’s been looking for her.’

‘I think she’s in the shower, love,’ Cathy replied, dragging the vacuum hose aside to let Frida pass. ‘She just told me she’d rather I did the downstairs first.’ She smiled kindly, and Frida wondered for a moment just how much Cathy knew about her mum and her problems.

‘The twins are in the front room,’ Frida explained, for want of something to say. ‘Just so you know. I’ve got them for an hour, while Katrin meets the people coming for house viewings. Hey, you might get a bit more work out of it, if any of them want a cleaner too …’ She trailed off, feeling inexplicably awkward about the exchange.

Cathy nodded mildly, unoffended, and started down the stairs. ‘You’re home early from school this term, love. My two don’t finish till June or July.’

‘Exam revision,’ Frida lied, and she darted along the landing before she had to explain any further.

In the en-suite, Frida found her mother standing in front of the mirrored wall, in just her underwear, pulling back the skin of her temples and checking herself out, this way and that. She wondered how long it would take before Amélie registered her appearance in the reflection behind her, and she felt the old rage boiling up with every second that passed. She stared at her mum’s thin frame and huffed loudly.

‘Chérie,’ Amélie said at last, still holding her face tight, eyes on herself. ‘What d’you think? Is it time?’

‘Time for what?’ Frida replied, knowing full well she was talking about Botox or fillers or some other rubbish. She sighed, recalling a time long ago when her mother could almost have been described as fun, back in the years before Hugo, when they were still living in London. Yes, she had been crazy, unpredictable and more often than not disappointing – but, while Frida’s father had been absent her entire life, Amélie had always been there. Sometimes, when she really, really tried, Frida could conjure up the fragrant memory of her mother’s kiss, and the tuck of the duvet snug around her feet, to keep her feeling safe whenever she was left alone. Bonne nuit, mon petit lapin.

Downstairs, the vacuum cleaner thrummed through the house.

‘Cathy said you wanted her to start downstairs today,’ Frida said, challenge in her voice. ‘Have you only just got out of bed?’

Amélie curled her lip, finally meeting Frida’s gaze in the glass of the mirror. ‘Ha! The cleaner? She came bursting into my bedroom, uninvited, throwing back the curtains, stinking the place out!’

‘Jeez, what the hell is that supposed to mean?’

‘Bleach! She always smells of bleach, chérie!’

Frida shook her head. ‘So, she woke you up at – what, one-thirty in the afternoon? Oh, yeah, really inconsiderate of her. And smelling of bleach too, after scrubbing your toilet clean. Poor bloody Amélie. Must be so hard being you.’

In the mirror, her mother shot her one last withering look, before stalking across the room to snatch up her brush and tame her thick dark hair into submission.

Frida took a breath, working hard on bringing her anger to heel. ‘Anyway, Mum, I only came here to tell you Auntie Kat is down at the front gates, wondering where you are.’

‘Pourquoi?’

‘Parce que,’ Frida replied, adopting her mother’s language in a well-practised show of sarcasm, ‘you’re meant to be helping her with the meet-and-greet. It’s Open Day, remember? She’s pretty much on her own down there. Hugo and Bill have gone walkabout too. Do you know where they are?’

Amélie sniffed, feigning upset. ‘How should I know? Nobody tells me anything.’

‘Oh, don’t be so pathetic, Mum. If you didn’t spend half your life in bed, you’d know just as much as the rest of us.’

‘Why don’t you go and help Katrin if you’re so bothered, chérie.’

Frida picked up her mother’s Chanel fragrance and sprayed it over her own neck and wrists, carelessly, as she glanced about the room, having already spotted the faintest smear of white powder left behind on the black polished windowsill. Setting the glass bottle down, Frida delved into her mother’s cosmetic bag and, with no searching at all, located a small paper wrap.

‘So, you’re using again?’ she said, holding it up between them as Amélie at last granted her her full attention.

For a few seconds neither said a word, and then Cathy walked in with her cleaning bucket, and stopped dead in the doorway. Discreetly, Frida dropped the wrap back where she’d found it.

‘Can’t you knock?’ Amélie screamed, her French accent dialling up to the max. ‘Have you no manners?! Ah! Go!’

Cathy’s face drained white. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Gold – I thought I heard you downstairs – I thought—’

But Amélie wasn’t listening. Frida watched on in horror as her mother threw out a dismissive arm and Cathy retreated down the hall to the furthest bedroom, to start up the vacuum cleaner again.

‘Mum, what the fuck?’ Frida hissed.

Amélie snatched up her silk robe, muttering under her breath. ‘These immigrants, you know, Frida? No manners!’

‘Mum! Have you even spoken to her? Her name’s Cathy and she’s Dorset born and bred. She’s from the town! She’s not an immigrant. And anyway, you’re an immigrant – my dad was an immigrant, for God’s sake – or so you tell me—’

But Amélie wasn’t listening. ‘That is not the same thing and you know it. I have a British passport and I’m married to an Englishman. And you, you have a British passport too. We have money, non? This—’ she said, gesturing around the sparkling bathroom ‘—this is not the home of an immigrant.’

Frida stared at her mother angrily tying the belt of her robe, and tried to recall the last time Amélie had spoken to her with any warmth. ‘Mum …’ she ventured, consciously softening her tone, realising she might not get another opportunity to catch her mother on her own again for a while. ‘Maybe we should talk about what happened at school, you know – the thing – why they sent me home early?’

Amélie made no response, except to turn back to face herself in the mirror.

‘You haven’t even mentioned my suspension letter.’ Frida’s heart was pounding now; it was the first time she’d brought up the subject since she’d arrived home, and the waiting – the waiting for Amélie to mention it was killing her. ‘I want to tell you what really happened.’

Avoiding her daughter’s gaze, Amélie scraped her hair into a bun, tight concentration on her face, before pushing a half-finished mug of coffee into Frida’s hands. ‘I read the letter. I know what happened, chérie,’ she said, flashing her dark eyes. ‘What you did, it was embarrassing to you, non? And him? So. You learned a lesson and you won’t do the same again. It is over.’ She reached for her make-up bag, and turned back to her own reflection.

This wasn’t how the chat was meant to go; how was Frida meant to put her side across? Why did no one want to hear what she had to say?

When Frida stepped out on to the la. . .