The Reunion

by Samantha Hayes

Genres: Thrillers; Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

They were all there the day your sister went missing.... Who is lying? Who is next?

Then - In charge of her little sister at the beach, Claire allowed Eleanor to walk to the shop alone to buy an ice cream. Placing a coin into her hand, Claire told her to be quick, knowing how much she wanted the freedom.

Eleanor never came back.

Now - The time has finally come to sell the family farm and Claire is organizing a reunion of her dearest friends, the same friends who were present the day her sister went missing.

When another girl disappears, long-buried secrets begin to surface. One of the group hides the darkest secret of them all....

If you love Sue Fortin, Gillian Flynn, and The Girl on the Train, this psychological thriller packed full of twists and turns will be impossible to put down.

Release date: February 9, 2018

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 350

Sample

‘It’s not your fault.’

That’s what the police officer told me as I sat shaking under a blanket. ‘Little girls go missing,’ she said, as if it happened every day. I felt as though I was underwater – her words fizzy bubbles, popped one by one by my mother’s piercing screams.

I’d lost my little sister.

‘Mrs Lucas,’ she said. ‘We need you to keep calm…’

The rest of the officer’s words floated, unheard, between me and my panicking mother as the horror of not having little Lenni in the kitchen hacking up chunks of crumbly cake or sloshing milk from the carton settled between us.

Of course it was my fault.

They asked me what she was wearing but my mind was on fire, wouldn’t work. Then my younger brother, Jason, came in, tripping on the step, wide-eyed, grabbing the door frame, panting. He looked around – his gaze a slow swirl of realisation. Everything was in slow motion.

‘Is she back?’ His hair was the colour of tandoori spice as the curls brushed his tanned cheeks.

I shook my head, then tried to focus. I knew what I wanted to say, but it wouldn’t come out… a swimsuit, plastic beach shoes… My teeth clamped together. The gritty sand between my toes felt like rocks. ‘Or maybe a dress…’ I heard myself saying. The lightness of that perfect summer’s day – a day when things should have been special for Nick and me – had transformed into a crumpled photograph of horrific possibilities.

‘No, she’s not back yet,’ the police officer told Jason. One of the two entrenched in our kitchen, she was young, kind and patient. Their uniforms made everything seem so badly serious.

‘Yet?’ My mother stopped crying, scoring her nails into the table top. Her face was ferocious, splitting at the seams in a way I’d never seen before.

‘I’m sure we’ll find her very soon,’ the officer said, as if we were discussing the chance of rain later. ‘Most are just runaways or get a bit lost.’

‘She’s only thirteen,’ Jason said. ‘But she acts much younger,’ he added for some reason. He glanced at me, swallowing several times. I stared at my feet.

The officer spoke into her radio, turning away from us as the crackled message fed back.

Think, think, think…

‘Please, Claire, please? Pretty please with cherries on top and fairy dust and icing sugar from angels’ wings?’ Lenni’s feet had scuffed the hot sand. She was so impatient. So determined to be independent.

I laughed. She seemed tiny with the ocean behind her. Her hair was ratty, dripping and dark from the salty water, not the usual flyaway red-gold. She jumped about in the one-piece bathing suit I’d lent her – sloppy at the legs and loose at the shoulders because she insisted on wearing a grown-up swimsuit. She hated those stupid ones for younger kids that Mum always bought. Her protests would be terminated with a pout – a delicious little-sister pout that I couldn’t resist.

Lenni hadn’t matured much since she was eight.

‘I’ll be quick. Lightning quick. So quick I’ll be back before I’ve even gone.’

‘Then you must have been and come back already, Lenni, so sit down and wait for the others to finish their swim. We can all go and get ice cream then.’

She jumped and stamped and went red with rage.

‘Lenni, you’re thirteen. Stop it.’

‘Exactly. So let me go and get ice cream.’

‘You know the rules. Mum says not to let you out of my sight.’

‘Mum won’t know.’

Poor Lenni. The baby of our family. The one Mum and Dad protected the most out of the three of us. She was driven to school every morning instead of taking the bus. She wasn’t allowed into town on a Saturday to pick her way through racks of cheap earrings and nail varnish with the other girls. She wore flat shoes, all her skirts were below the knee and she’d never held hands with a boy. Accident-prone and without fear, Lenni had already got herself into enough scrapes to make our parents constantly concerned. Over the years, their anxiety spiked as Lenni’s trusting and innocent nature became her vulnerability. Dad said she was easy prey. The kids at school joked she was simple.

I sighed. ‘You promise you’ll be quick as a fox?’

Lenni’s face broke like a sunrise as a wave crashed and spilt around her ankles. I jumped up and we dragged the trampled-on beach towels and discarded clothes above the tideline. The air was humid and salty; the water cool and dangerous. We’d all dived straight in when we arrived.

‘Here’s a pound,’ I said, pulling money from my purse. Lenni’s eyes lit up. ‘Go straight along the beach, up to the road and use the zebra crossing—’

‘But that way takes forever,’ Lenni whined. She pulled on her shorts and wiggled her feet into her rubber beach sandals. The denim darkened at the hips where the water seeped through.

‘Not the cliff path. Mum would have a fit.’

She pulled a face. ‘OK.’ She took the money and pushed it into her pocket. ‘Hate you, sis.’ She grinned cheekily over her bony shoulder.

‘Hate you too, Len-monster,’ and I lunged for a tickle, but she darted off down the beach, leaving a trail of footprints in the sand.

The police officer was talking to me, but I couldn’t understand what she was saying. She was holding a notepad.

‘Sorry…’ It was an apology more than a question.

‘I asked you who Lenni’s friends are.’

I touched the side of my head, squinting as the room went blurry. Truth was, Lenni didn’t really have any friends. The kids in her class were mean to her and she never had anyone back to play. ‘Oh God…’ I buried my face in my hands, hardly able to stand what I’d done. If I hadn’t gone back into the sea, if only I’d watched her go down the beach, tracked her veering off inland to where the sandbank rose, dotted with gorse and marram grass, separating the dunes from the row of shops, counted down the minutes until I saw her again, perhaps I’d have somehow kept her safe.

But Nick had called out to me. He’d dived head first into the waves, beckoning me with his whole body – his tanned shoulders, his lean back, his long legs. He broke down my name into streamer-like syllables when he resurfaced.

Clai-aire…

It was my last try for Nick, part of the reason I’d got us all together that day for one final burst of fun before we went off to different universities and colleges where he would surely find someone else. It was as though I was still underwater with him. Suspended. Nothing real.

It had been three hours.

Three hours since I’d said Hate you too, Len-monster.

Three hours since the tide washed away her footprints.

Claire looked up from her work. She hadn’t noticed them come in.

‘How about this one?’ the man said. A couple were browsing the wall display.

Had he just called her Eleanor?

She put down her pen, watching them for a moment, focusing on the woman, giving her a slow look up and down.

‘Morning…’ Claire came out from behind her desk. They were in their late thirties, professional-looking, browsing the half-million-pound and above properties. ‘How may I help you?’

The man turned, giving a polite smile. ‘We’d like some more details on this one, please.’ He pointed to a property.

‘And this one too,’ the woman added, smiling.

Claire hesitated before replying. Wondering, extrapolating, working out the age. Had she misheard the name? ‘Are you looking for an older place?’ she asked. ‘Or would you consider something new as well?’

‘Something with character,’ the man replied. She decided to give them the details for Cliff Lodge anyway. On the surface it seemed old, with its reclaimed bricks and gnarled timberwork. The builder had done a great job, but buyers were generally savvy. They’d soon realise it was overpriced.

‘This one has amazing views,’ Claire told them, slipping the details inside a glossy brochure. ‘You get the feel of an older property but with all the benefits of a new build. It scores top on energy ratings, has a media control panel for the entire house, underfloor heating, state-of-the-art security…’

‘It looks interesting,’ the woman said, glancing at her partner. ‘Though we really were set on something original.’ She smiled. Her hair was light brown, short and highlighted with flecks of red. Her skin was pale, slightly sun-kissed, and her height, Claire guessed, would be about right. Her breathing quickened.

‘Well, take it anyway,’ she said, handing over the brochures. She’d lost count of how many clients with fixed criteria would, three months later, be moving into somewhere entirely different.

‘I can make a few calls now to arrange some viewings if you like.’ She didn’t usually go for the hard sell, but it had been a lean month, though she also wondered if it was her interest in the woman making her pushy. ‘Would you like a coffee?’

The couple looked at each other and nodded, so Claire went into the back to pour the drinks. ‘Have you a property to sell?’ she asked, returning.

‘Our London place is sold. We’re renting down here,’ the man replied, turning the brochure pages.

Claire’s heart fluttered. With only ten days left in the month, she could do with a decent sale. ‘I’m Claire, by the way,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘Claire Rodway.’

They both smiled. ‘I’m Gary and this is my wife, Eleanor.’ Claire couldn’t help gripping the woman’s hand for a moment too long.

An hour and a half later they’d viewed two empty properties. Cliff Lodge, followed by what Claire thought would be the perfect property, not far from Rock. She’d questioned Eleanor about her past as much as she could, but it turned out she’d lived in Kent and London all her life. As they stood outside the last house, gazing back at the façade, Claire’s phone buzzed in her pocket.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, stepping aside. She overheard Gary and Eleanor whispering about furniture, the piano, kids’ bedrooms and where they could put a vegetable plot. It sounded promising.

‘Hello, Claire Rodway speaking.’ There was silence on the line apart from background noise that either sounded like traffic or the tide rushing in. ‘Hello? Who is this?’

The line went dead.

Claire stared at the screen. It was the second time that day – and each call had come up as number withheld. She shrugged and went back to the couple. ‘So, what do you think?’

‘It’s certainly got potential,’ Eleanor said. ‘I’d just hoped for more of a project. Something I can put my mark on.’ The couple nodded at each other, joining hands.

‘We were wondering if you have any barns to convert or old farmhouses with potential, that sort of thing?’ her partner said.

Claire stifled a sigh. ‘Possibly,’ she said in a way that would make them believe there was hope, even though she knew they didn’t have anything like that on their books. ‘I’ll check the files and give you a call.’

If she’d known then what she found out later, she could have taken them straight to the perfect property and probably had an offer on the table by close of business.

‘Mum, Dad, it’s me…’ Claire called from the back hall, letting herself in. She’d stopped by at her parents’ farm next door to her own house to pick up the dress her mum had altered for Amy. There was no reply, so she went straight into the large flagstoned kitchen.

She stopped suddenly.

‘Mum, what’s wrong?’ She glanced between her parents.

Her father was sitting at the kitchen table with the newspaper open in front of him but obviously not reading it. His glasses were lying beside him, his eyes looking as though they’d been glued, unfocused, to the same page for the last ten minutes. Her mother was making a point of banging pots and pans as she prepared their evening meal.

‘Is anyone going to speak?’ Whatever was going on, Claire didn’t think it seemed fair on her father under the circumstances.

‘Everything’s fine, darling,’ Shona said, glancing up. She wore a tight expression, one that gave her an instant facelift. But instead of making her appear younger – although Claire hoped she looked that good when she reached seventy-one – it made her seem weary, as though she’d had enough.

‘Thanks for altering the dress,’ Claire said, catching sight of it on the chair. ‘Amy will love it. She has a party at the weekend and—’

‘Your mother wants to split up the farm and sell it off to rich people from London, so they can bugger about with it and convert it into bloody holiday lets.’

Claire stared at her father. Surely he was confused again.

‘And considering everything, is that not a sensible idea, Patrick?’ Shona held a large knife inside a tea towel, her long fingers gripped around it. Only her mother could make drying up seem elegant.

‘Mum, is this true?’ Claire felt her heart grinding, as if trying to slow the inevitable. Neither of her parents answered directly.

‘Oh, Patrick,’ Shona said through a sigh. She went to her husband and clasped his shoulders, pulling him close to her chest. She kissed him on the head. ‘We’ve talked about this already. Don’t you remember? You said it was a good idea.’ She returned to the worktop and snipped at a bunch of parsley growing in a pot on the windowsill. A strand of hair fell in front of her eyes like a grey brushstroke on a painting. Again, Claire noticed how tired she looked.

‘It’s not a good idea,’ Patrick stated with a growl.

‘You’re really thinking of selling the farm?’ She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She’d grown up here. Everything had happened at Trevellin Farm. The enormity of her mother’s decision swooped through her.

Someone must always be here…

They’d made a promise.

‘I don’t believe I’m hearing this.’ Claire was instantly on her father’s side. And what did she mean, We’ve talked about this already?

‘Your mother’s lost her bloody mind,’ her father said. He rose and went to the old dresser, reaching into the bottom cupboard. He pulled out a bottle of red wine, uncorked it and poured himself a large glass. The kitchen was swollen with silence. Claire felt her mother’s stare, but she couldn’t return the look. It was a relief to see her father so opinionated rather than vague and confused, but what he’d just said cut deep, even though he didn’t realise it.

‘Patrick, have some fruit juice instead.’ Shona tried to remove the glass from her husband’s hands, but he clung on to it, downing a large mouthful. ‘Be sensible, darling. You know what the doctor said about your blood pressure.’

In the days before his diagnosis, Patrick had always enjoyed a glass or two while Shona prepared dinner. They would chat, reminisce, laugh and bind themselves up in the safety of over forty years of marriage. Now, though, alcohol was strictly off limits, and usually he complied. They’d been told that raised blood pressure could worsen his Alzheimer’s, and Shona wanted to do everything she could to slow the disease.

‘Are you certain about selling, Mum?’ Claire ran her fingers over the perfect seam her mother had stitched on the dress.

‘Yes, love.’ Shona looked at her husband, a knot of concern tied between her brows. ‘We won’t leave the area, of course. We still want to be near you, Callum and the children.’

The subtext of this told Claire that her mother needed to be close, that she wouldn’t be able to cope with Patrick alone wherever they lived.

‘You know how much time and energy this place takes up.’

Claire heard her mother speaking but couldn’t take it in. Her words blended into one big truth that she didn’t want to hear – that her parents weren’t the immortal beings she’d always believed them to be.

Her father was already ill, deteriorating, and that had been shock enough earlier in the year. But accepting that they would grow older still and one day both need taking care of was unthinkable. Why had she never considered this before? Why had she thought that her mother, whippet-like and capable, elegant and stoic, would remain fixed inside an unchanging body, as if Claire herself would catch up and die first?

‘Pat, where are you going, love?’ Shona called out.

‘To the bloody toilet, if that’s all right with you.’ He banged the hallway door behind him.

‘He’s had a bad week,’ Shona confided in a low voice. They both knew there was nothing wrong with Patrick’s hearing. ‘It’s so very worrying. If we sell, then I can focus more on caring for Dad. Please try to understand, darling. It’s not easy for me.’

At that moment, Claire felt both desperately sorry for her mother and like she wanted to lash out, scream at her for even contemplating selling the farm. She closed her eyes. Apart from the obvious – that someone would always be here, just in case – she couldn’t begin to imagine not visiting her parents here. They were her closest neighbours, literally at the end of the long, shared drive, and she couldn’t imagine her father ever getting used to living anywhere else. The farm had always been the family’s home.

‘He’s been doing… odd things,’ Shona said quietly. ‘It’s very upsetting.’

‘What kind of odd things?’ Claire wasn’t sure she could stand to hear. Over the last eighteen months they’d all noticed changes in Patrick, and between them had discussed what it might be – stress, age, plain forgetfulness. In the end, they’d coaxed him to the doctor and a diagnosis wasn’t far behind.

‘He’s been in Lenni’s room a lot. Talking to her as if she’s really there.’

Claire hung her head and sighed. The clear-minded man of her youth, the capable father who’d taken control when Lenni disappeared, searching tirelessly, organising and never giving up, seemed a million miles away from the man now being eaten up by this wretched disease. She hated how he sometimes believed she had never disappeared, that his youngest daughter might walk into the room at any moment.

‘And yesterday he told me he saw her skipping down the street,’ Shona continued.

‘What was he doing out alone?’

‘Love, keeping your father indoors would be the end for him. You know how stubborn he is. He might have Alzheimer’s, but I refuse to let the disease have him. We do things our way.’

Claire folded the dress and placed it on her knee. She didn’t like hearing any of this. Until recently, she hadn’t wanted to accept her father as anything but the man she remembered when she was five. A kind-hearted, gentle giant, yet stoked with a reserve of seriousness if need be, Patrick was always up for a make-believe adventure with her and her friends out on the farm or ready to tell a good story. Hard-working, yet soft as butter in the sun, Patrick adored his family.

And Claire had taken delight in sharing him with her friends when growing up. He’d become a kind of surrogate father to them all, forming a special bond with her close-knit group. Her friends would be envious of the indomitable man as he gave them piggybacks up and down the beach, played cricket with them on the sand – how they wished their fathers were like him – yet occasionally they’d scamper home a touch frightened when he’d overreacted about inconsequential things. Sand in the porch, the fire not laid right, running through the house – any trigger that worked him into a mini rage, which would usually burn itself out after carting some bales or an afternoon’s fishing.

‘And what if she comes back?’ Patrick’s voice boomed. He was braced in the doorway, as if holding up the house.

‘Pat, she’s not coming back. You know that.’ Shona’s voice was as soft as she could make it. ‘Come and sit down.’

Only Mum would ever dare say that, Claire thought. She began to fidget with the dress again but stopped herself from ruining it.

‘Claire, I’d like someone from your office to come out and give us an opinion,’ Shona said. ‘I don’t suppose it’s fair to ask you to value the place personally, but we’d like to give your agency the business. You have such a good reputation round here.’

Claire had been working at Greene & Galloway for nearly a decade. Chris Greene and Jeff Galloway were away from the office more and more now they were approaching retirement. She virtually ran the place single-handedly.

‘Take more time to decide, Mum,’ Claire said, glancing at her father. ‘It’s Dad’s decision too.’ She watched her mother’s eyes crystallise and harden. Claire put a hand on her arm. ‘Thanks for doing this.’ She held up the dress. ‘I’ll bring the kids down to see you at the weekend.’

She kissed both of her parents and went out to her car. The sea breeze smelt like a salty soup bubbling on the stove. The tide would be out, she guessed, remembering how, as a child, she would scamper over the rocks and sandy patches between the crystal-clear pools, marvelling at the intricate gifts left behind. If the tide was out, the sea-smell was in, her father used to say, excited as a kid himself at the prospect of an afternoon beachcombing with his daughter and her friends.

Her friends. How would they feel when she told them that Patrick had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s? So far, they’d kept the news amongst close family, and besides, she didn’t get to see any of them as often as she’d have liked. And how would they react to the house sale? Patrick and the farm had been as much a part of their childhoods as it had hers. It was all heartbreaking.

Claire drove back down the long driveway, past the Old Stables where she lived, spotting that Callum wasn’t home yet, and on into the village. It was time to fetch Amy from the childminder.

‘Oh, Dad,’ she said to herself as she parked the car on the quiet lane, her head tilted back against the seat. She couldn’t bear to see her father deteriorate in such a short period of time and, since his diagnosis, she’d been desperate to do something helpful for him. Until now, she had no idea what that could be.

Behind all the worry and concern, Claire felt the first glimmer of a plan hatching. She smiled to herself as she locked the car. She’d read up on how this sort of thing could help, and she reckoned it would do him the world of good. Her mind was made up.

Callum knew Marcus must already be home as he unlocked the front door to the Old Stables. He felt the resonant thud-thud of the bass beat in the floor, the walls, even the air, before he actually heard his son’s music.

The breakfast remains were still on the kitchen table – exactly how Claire had left it as she’d dashed out for the school run and then on to work, except now the cat had dragged a piece of toast onto the floor and licked off the butter. The ginger tom wound between Callum’s feet as he poured a glass of water.

‘Anyone else home?’ he called out, swigging and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Claire?’

Nothing. He supposed she would be fetching Amy.

He went back to the hall and picked up the newspaper from the mat, settling down in his favourite armchair to have half-an-hour’s read before the evening chaos began. But for some reason, he couldn’t concentrate.

There was nothing specific worrying him. Work was interesting and challenging as ever – though it could not escape the usual NHS managerial stranglehold, he was grateful his department had avoided yet more funding cutbacks. The health scare he’d had earlier in the year had proved nothing more than a minor infection mimicking something more serious, and even his new secretary had surpassed all his expectations. He couldn’t suppress the small smile at the thought of her as he skimmed the day’s news.

Agitated, he rested his head back on the chair. Claire seemed happy enough, he supposed, and the kids were doing well at school even if Marcus’s form tutor had found it necessary to telephone twice this term already about missed coursework. But that was Claire’s department. She’d sort it out.

Why, then, these feelings – a sense of dissatisfaction, of fear almost? Why the aggravating peck-peck at the back of his mind that something wasn’t right, that something was missing? He wondered if it was his age – he was approaching fifty, after all. Was it some kind of mid-life shift that, while it wasn’t a full-blown crisis, made him feel that surely there must be more to life than work-sleep, work-sleep?

No, he thought, as he heard the front door unlock. It wasn’t any of that. It was a far bigger thing, burning at the very core of him as it always had done, and he knew there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

‘We’re home,’ Claire announced.

Then he heard the shrill voice of his six-year-old daughter telling off the cat for licking the toast and Claire’s long sigh followed by the clatter of plates as she began clearing up.

‘How are my two favourite ladies?’ he asked, standing in the kitchen doorway. He flicked on the light. There was an eerie orange-pink glow outside, making it seem more like a nine o’clock summer sunset than the three hours earlier it really was. The red bricks of the barn across the yard looked on fire.

‘Looks as though there’s a thunderstorm on the way,’ he said, reaching down to hug Amy. He paused, wondering if it was prophetic. ‘How was school, little one?’

‘One of the chicks died. Mrs Henry told us it would get better, but she lied.’ Amy pouted.

‘That’s sad.’ Callum gratefully took the glass of wine Claire offered. Judging by the ingredients she was unpacking, she was going to cook curry. A Friday night tradition in the Rodway household. Another regular occurrence in the steady beat of his life.

‘It had been pecked to death,’ Amy went on. ‘It had blood and beaky marks all over its head.’

‘That’s called pecking order,’ he explained, glancing at his wife.

Claire raised her eyebrows. He thought her hair looked stunning in the strange light. It didn’t normally look quite so red, but tonight it was as if every strand had been dipped in a different shade of liquid copper.

‘Why did Mrs Henry lie, then? Why didn’t the mummy chicken look after the baby?’

Amy twirled the tassel on her cardigan around her finger. Callum knew it meant she was tired, that she’d had enough of school, the childminder, and wanted nothing more than supper, a warm bath, a story and bed. Claire would see to all that.

Callum sighed. What was he to do – tell her it was OK for adults to lie to children but not the other way around? Explain survival of the fittest in language a six-year-old wouldn’t question?

He was too tired for all that right now. Instead, large hands dragged down his face and when he reappeared he offered up a playful boo! sending Amy squealing off and hurling herself onto the beanbag in the snug.

‘Nicely avoided,’ Claire said, pulling a face. He wasn’t sure if she was being sarcastic.

‘You want me to tell her the truth?’ He desperately wanted to avoid a Friday night battle. He’d been longing for her all day. Then the new secretary was on his mind again.

‘Mum wants to sell Trevellin,’ Claire said out of the blue, stopping what she was doing.

‘Because of Pat?’ Callum helped her unpack the rest of the groceries.

Claire nodded and leant on the worktop, allowing her head to drop while he topped up her glass. She was so tense these days.

‘Dad doesn’t want to move, of course, but Mum won’t be able to cope with the farm and his illness.’

‘I agree with your mum. It’s not just the house but the land and all the old buildings too. It’s a lot to look after.’

‘Dad still does what he can. He goes out and potters about most days.’ Claire was defensive.

‘It takes more than pottering to look after a place like that and you know it. They’re in their seventies now, Claire.’ Callum allowed his hands to settle on his wife’s shoulders and drift down her arms. He held her hands.

‘I know. You’re right. It’s just the end of an era, that’s all.’ She gave a small smile.

‘Will you be selling it for them?’

Claire nodded. ‘Mum’s talking about offering it to developers. For holiday lets.’

‘Shrewd,’ Callum said, raising his eyebrows. ‘All the barns, the cottage, the land… Perhaps a caravan park too.’ He blew out through his teeth. ‘And only half a mile from the beach.’ He gently massaged her hands. He knew she liked that and reckoned he’d averted a blow-up.

‘It seemed like ten miles when we were kids, walking it four times a day.’ Claire softened at the memory.

Callum didn’t want her to get maudlin, so he lowered his mouth onto hers, kissing her gently. She responded briefly, their fingers in a loose weave, but then she pulled away.

‘I should get on with supper.’

‘Yuk,’ Marcus said, bending into the refrigerator after glancing at his parents. ‘This milk’s well off.’ He emerged sloshing a carton which contained something verging on cottage cheese. His hair flopped over his eyes.

‘Hi, love,’ Claire said, pulling some fresh milk from the last of the shopping bags. ‘Dad and I were just talking about how we used to walk to the beach as kids.’ She took the old milk from him and washed it down the sink.

‘Well, you lot did. Don’t forget I’d just started at medical school while you were still playing with buckets and spades.’ Callum winked at his son when Claire didn’t respond.

‘Marcus prefers surfing on his laptop than in the sea, don’t you, love?’ Claire said, chopping an onion. Secretly, she w