The Summer Trip

by Isabelle Broom

Genres: Holiday books; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

What happens when three sisters decide to swap lives for one summer?

A gorgeous and evocative novel about three sisters and a life-changing summer in Corfu.

What if your life worked out perfectly . . . for someone else?

It's been 18 years since Ava spent the summer on the Greek island of Corfu, but she has never forgotten what happened during those months - or who she left behind.

Now single, estranged from her family, and preparing to wave her daughter off to university, Ava's life seems a million miles away from the one she dreamed about as a teenager - a life now being lived by her sister instead.

When Ava decides to return to Corfu for the summer, she knows she must finally face the place and the people that broke her heart. But with old resentments festering, long-buried secrets lurking, and familiar feelings resurfacing, it looks set to be a holiday that will change all their lives forever. . .

***

Praise for Isabelle Broom:

'Gloriously escapist, unashamedly romantic, witty and hugely enjoyable'
Sunday Mirror

'I totally lost myself in this heart-warming, charming tale of love, family and gorgeous Greece. I adored it'
Milly Johnson

'A writing powerhouse'
Carrie Hope Fletcher

'Brilliantly evocative - it's left me longing for a Greek holiday!
Paige Toon

'A gorgeous story of heartbreak, forgiveness and self-discovery.'
Giovanna Fletcher

'This book takes you on holiday'
Adele Parks

'Well-written and perfect for a lazy afternoon on the sofa'
Daily Mail

'Combines a wonderful setting with the poignancy of self-discovery and a touching romance'
Katie Fforde

'Brilliant, warm and beautifully judged - I raced through it'
Cathy Kelly

'An evocative and enchanting story'
Cathy Bramley

(P) 2022 Hodder & Stoughton Limited

Release date: June 23, 2022

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 416

Sample

1

The telephone call, the one that started it all, happened on a Monday.

I wonder if I would have answered it had I known what was to follow. If, instead of a standard ring, it had announced shrilly, ‘Ava Fox, your life is about to change in the most extraordinary way’? Unlikely.

As it was, the phone merely elicited the same, low-throated tinkle it always did, and given that, save for the occasional cold caller, the only person who ever rang me on the landline was my mother, I concluded begrudgingly that I should pick up, and did so with a determinedly cheery, ‘Hello’.

‘Ava, is that you?’

Why do mothers always do this? I swallowed the urge to make a snarky reply and settled for a ‘yes’ instead.

‘I never know if it’s you or Rosie these days,’ she said, punctuating her statement with a weary little sigh, as if my daughter’s voice sounding similar to my own was the most tiresome of inconveniences.

‘For Rosie to answer this phone would mean she had put down her mobile for more than three consecutive seconds,’ I told her. ‘Which, I’m afraid to say, is a near-impossibility at the moment.’

My mother clucked with either affection or disapproval – I never have been able to differentiate – and got straight to her point.

‘I spoke to Mattie earlier today.’

‘And?’ I waited a moment, but she didn’t elaborate. ‘How is she?’

Mattie being my sister, Matilda. Sweet, dependable, and infuriatingly close to perfect – I tried to avoid thinking about her wonderful life if I could help it.

‘Fed up,’ was my mother’s matter-of-fact reply.

That was unexpected. Kind, patient and predictable ­Mattie did not do ‘fed up’.

‘What has she got to be fed up about?’ I retorted, wincing inwardly at how bitter I sounded but barrelling on regardless. ‘Is the sunshine in Greece too hot for her? The sea too blue?’

My mother cleared her throat.

‘Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, as I am sure you’re well aware.’

It took a lot of effort on my part not to rise to this. Instead, I said, ‘Every time I’ve seen Mattie, she’s seemed very happy with her lot. She is Mrs Positivity.’

‘Mattie is so like your father in that way,’ my mother agreed. ‘Affable to her core. Unlike us,’ she added as an afterthought.

I gripped the receiver a fraction tighter, glancing up the stairs in time to see the long, jogging-bottoms-clad legs of my daughter as she ascended, one hand on the banister and the other clasped around her phone. Taking in my expression, she mouthed the word ‘Granny’, to which I nodded, and then stifled a smile as she hastily beat a retreat. It is not that Rosie dislikes her maternal grandmother, more that she humours my slightly odd relationship with her. Occasionally, she will say things such as, ‘God, I can’t imagine having a mum I couldn’t talk to about stuff,’ and I will feel my chest swell with a blend of pride and self-pity.

‘Anyway,’ my mother went on, ‘I think what Mattie really needs is a break. She works too hard – always has done. So, with that in mind, I suggested that she and Niko stay at your house this summer.’

‘Here?’

‘No, Ava, in your garden shed. Of course, there.’

‘Now who’s being sarcastic?’ I muttered, to which my mother made a tutting sound.

‘We don’t have any space,’ I continued. ‘Rosie will never agree to share a room, and even if she did, I would honestly prefer not to bunk up for weeks on end. We’d all be on top of each other – it would be a disaster. Why can’t they stay with you?’

‘Oh, your father and I are lending the house to a friend of a friend while we’re in Thailand – did I not tell you?’

I am on the verge of repeating the word ‘Thailand’ incredulously, when it dawns on me what this means.

‘You’re going to visit Ophelia?’

My youngest sibling departed England a little over a year ago to take up a job offer in Australia, only she never made it past her stopover, deciding instead that a better use of her time would be to become a so-called influencer. Which is classic Ophelia. I had not heard from her since, at least not directly, but I was able to keep tabs on her through the endless Instagram posts, invariably featuring a beach, a bikini, some sort of green juice, and a lot of guff about ‘living for the moment’. Ophelia always had made her own rules, stepped outside the boundaries of what was expected and followed whatever path led her to the most fun. ‘Good for her,’ I would always remark. Untruthfully.

‘You know how much I miss her,’ said my mother.

‘That’s no surprise, given that she’s your favourite.’

‘Well, yes.’ My mother did not miss a beat. ‘That’s because she is the most like me, I suppose – a free spirit.’

The fact that I had pulled the pin out of this particular truth grenade myself did little to lessen the pain it caused.

From somewhere upstairs, I heard taps being turned on. Rosie was running a bath; she had one almost every night, tablet propped up on the loo seat so she could watch one of her beloved history documentaries.

It was not fair of my mother to insist that Mattie and her husband be crammed into our house all summer. It would disrupt my daughter’s routine, convince her to spend less time at home and then drive her into the arms of one of the hapless-looking boys who occasionally loitered in our street, waiting to walk her to college.

Of course, that was not the only reason I didn’t want them here.

‘Before you say no again,’ my mother pre-empted, ‘let me tell you the other part of my plan.’

I sighed.

‘Which is?’

‘The genius thing is, you won’t have to worry about a lack of space,’ she continued. ‘Because while Mattie and Niko will be in your house, you and Rosie will be in theirs.’

That shut me up.

‘Ava?’

‘I’m still here.’

‘What do you think? Wouldn’t it be nice to see Corfu again? And a holiday in Greece would be such a treat for Rosie. You’re forever telling me how hard she’s worked, studying for her A levels as well as doing all that volunteering – this could be her reward.’

I closed my eyes as I contemplated.

‘Mattie thinks it’s a brilliant idea,’ she went on. ‘They had a pool put in last summer and you can see all the way across Kalami Bay from their patio.’

I did not need to be reminded of how blissful my sister’s Greek island life was. Why Mattie would agree to swap that for a poky two-bedroomed terrace in Brighton, where it would doubtless rain with gloomy determination all through the summer, I could not fathom. But I also knew that a refusal to cooperate would make me unpopular, and my mother was bound to get word of her plan to Rosie, who I knew would be thrilled by the prospect of a holiday abroad. The school term would be over soon, so I could not feasibly use my own work as an excuse given that I’d been planning to take a break over the summer anyway. And then there was the small matter that I did miss Corfu.

Every day.

Still.

‘And you’re absolutely sure Mattie is on board with this swap?’ I checked. ‘She is genuinely prepared to lend me and Rosie the house?’

My mother coughed.

‘Yes. I said so, didn’t I?’

Her indignation silenced me once again, and I chewed on my retort, swallowed it with several deep breaths.

‘So, I’ll tell your sister it’s all arranged, shall I?’ my mother pressed.

For a tantalising second, I allowed myself to picture Corfu, to envisage the myriad hues of the sea, feel the warmth of the sunshine, hear the ambient hum of insects, taste the salty feta and smell the sharp scent of lemons. It was all there, waiting for me. All I had to do was say yes.

And yet . . .

‘You can tell her,’ I said firmly, ‘that I will think about it.’

2

I told myself that it would depend solely on Rosie. That if she warmed to the idea of spending the summer after her A levels in Corfu rather than at home with her friends, then I would properly consider it. Having left the confines of teaching in a primary classroom to instead become a private tutor several years ago, I was fortunate enough to have a flexible schedule and the ability to work from anywhere with a decent Wi-Fi connection. Although I imagined Rosie would be keen to escape for a few weeks, the time frame my mother had proposed was closer to two months. Surely the prospect of being away that long would not appeal – not when Rosie and the crowd she had grown up with would all be scarpering to various universities come September. This would be their last summer together.

I assumed wrong.

‘A whole summer in Greece? Seriously? Er, Mum – of course we should go. I can’t believe you’re even questioning it. They have a pool!’

‘You don’t think you’d miss Ally and the gang too much?’ I ventured. We were in our usual spots in the kitchen, me at the sink, pink Marigolds submerged, her sitting up on the edge of the worktop, bare toes curled around the back of a chair.

‘Ally never looks up from snogging Tom long enough to notice me these days,’ Rosie observed. ‘They’re basically married – it’s so gross.’

‘Quite,’ I agreed, getting to work on the breakfast plates. ‘But two months is a long time to be away. I would completely understand if you would rather not go, and I’m sure Mattie would, too.’

I sensed rather than saw my daughter roll her eyes.

‘Probably,’ she allowed, ‘but Granny wouldn’t. She never takes no for an answer. Remember when she nagged you into wearing that hideous tartan dress for Gramps’s seventieth? When you saw how bad you looked in it, you actually cried, and even then, she didn’t budge.’

I chuckled at the memory.

‘And anyway,’ Rosie continued, reaching round me to pluck a banana from the fruit bowl on the windowsill, ‘I want to go. You went to Corfu for the summer the year you turned eighteen, so it’s only fair that I get to do the same.’

‘That’s another thing.’ I paused mid-scour and turned to face her, experiencing as I always did the tug of affection in my chest at the sight of her – my girl. Her blond curls were frizzed by slumber, her Harry Potter pyjamas worn into holes on both knees. I adored the contrasts of her, the burgeoning young woman who painted her nails, made up her face and asked if she could have a glass of wine with dinner kept at bay by the child who was reluctant to grow up, to fall into the trappings of adulthood. I wanted to protect that little girl. The idea of losing her, of that lingering innocence being snatched away before she was ready to relinquish it, made me feel hot and fierce.

Rosie took a large bite of her banana. ‘What other thing?’

‘Only monkeys chatter with their mouths full.’

She chewed and swallowed. ‘What other thing?’

‘Your birthday. Turning eighteen is a big deal and it only happens once. I thought you wanted a party on the pier?’

‘A pool party in Greece trumps a pier party in Brighton any day.’

‘Even if your boring old mum is on the guestlist?’

‘Come on, Mum – thirty-seven isn’t all that old – and maybe by the time my birthday rolls around I’ll have made friends with some of the locals.’ Rosie’s expression brightened as she added, ‘Or you might even have a holiday romance, like that woman did in that film.’

‘You had better not be referring to Shirley Valentine.’

‘That’s the one!’

‘Who are you and what have you done with my ­daughter?’

‘I’m serious, Mum.’ She poked me gently with her big toe. ‘It’s about time you found yourself a boyfriend.’

‘Oh, is it now?’

‘Yeah. I mean, as long as you don’t spend the entire holiday sucking face like Ally and Tom, obviously.’

‘Sucking face? What a delightful description.’

‘Dad won’t care – he has Laura now anyway.’

My ex-partner Paul had hit the cliché jackpot by falling in love with the life coach he had turned to after the two of us broke up.

‘Why would I want to spend time with anyone other than my beautiful, talented, funny and cheeky’ – I flicked a froth of bubbles across her feet – ‘daughter?’

Rosie hopped down from the worktop and deposited her banana skin in the compost caddy before wrapping her arms around my shoulders.

‘Seriously,’ she murmured. ‘I know you’re probably worried about me freaking out at the prospect of you moving on or whatever, but I really won’t. I’m cool about it.’

‘I know you are.’ The words snagged in my throat. ‘Thank you.’

Rosie squeezed me a fraction tighter, but rather than relaxing, I felt myself tense up.

‘The time,’ I said, and we both glanced towards the clock mounted on the wall. ‘You had better get a wriggle on. What is it today?’

‘History – Tudors mostly, so lots of head-chopping and bonking of cousins.’ She groaned, dragging her feet towards the door.

‘You’ll walk it,’ I said truthfully. Because she would. My daughter’s ability to remember dates, events and names was nothing short of astounding, and history was her subject, her passion. Writing about it for three hours was less a chore than a pleasurable way to spend a morning, as far as she was concerned. A few months ago, she had returned from spending the weekend with her father and announced that he and Laura had promised her one hundred and fifty pounds for every top grade she achieved, plus a fifty-pound bonus if she managed to achieve this across all four subjects.

‘Easiest six hundred and fifty quid I’ll ever make,’ she’d told me happily. ‘I almost feel sorry for him.’

I stared into the murky dishwater, at the curls of scrambled eggs that had detached from the frying pan and were floating on the surface, lost for a moment in the fog of what might have been, how my life could have looked if I had made different choices. Then, feeling irritated with myself, I pushed the image away.

Why are humans built this way? Why must we taunt ourselves with the impossible?

It was the prospect of returning to Corfu that had triggered all this, of course. There was no way I could think about the place without being reminded of what happened all those years ago, of the regret that had lingered inside me ever since. Perhaps returning to the island would act as an exorcism of sorts; maybe it would show me that what I assumed to be perfection was in fact mundane.

I was still standing by the sink when the doorbell rang, and I smiled as I heard Rosie thundering down the stairs.

‘I’m off!’ she yelled from the hallway. ‘Wish me luck!’

‘Luck!’ I called back.

‘Oh, and Mum.’

‘Yes?’

‘Corfu. We’re definitely going, aren’t we?’

And, just like that, we were.

3

I have long been of the opinion that those who proclaim airports to be ‘such fun’ are likely descendants of people who threw slaves to the lions centuries ago.

There is nothing I find less fun than overpriced taxis, endless queues, suitcases wheeled across toes and the awkwardness of being patted down by humourless security staff. Do I really look like a criminal? I always think.

Our flight was also delayed. Because of course it was.

‘Four hours?’ Rosie’s expression of abject horror said it all.

‘I’ll buy you whatever you want to eat,’ I chivvied. ‘And then we can peruse the designer handbags and gasp in horror at the price tags.’

She went easy on me and chose Pret a Manger as our lunch destination. I sipped a burnt-tasting black coffee while she munched her way through a cheese and pickle baguette.

‘Aren’t you hungry?’

‘I had a big breakfast,’ I lied. The truth, that my stomach was bound in far too many knots for me to contemplate any food, would have required too much explanation. I kept waiting for my brain to accept that yes, we were about to embark on a flight that would whisk us from dreary ­Britain to dazzling Greece; that I would once again bathe in the clear water, wake each day and be greeted by sunshine, and that I would revisit all the places I had spent so many years dreaming about.

It still felt impossible.

‘Don’t you think it’s a bit weird that Auntie Mattie isn’t going to be there?’ Rosie piped up between mouthfuls. ‘I haven’t seen her since we spent Christmas at Granny and Gramps’s three years ago – you’d think she’d want to at least spend a few days with us before she and Uncle Niko fly over here.’

I responded with a non-committal ‘hmm’.

‘Didn’t you ask her?’ Rosie persisted.

‘I haven’t actually spoken to her directly,’ I admitted. ‘Granny organised everything.’

‘If I had a sister, I would speak to her every single day.’

The lack of a sibling was one of Rosie’s go-to subjects whenever she was seized by the urge to have an adolescent moan.

‘You’re so lucky to have two, and yet the three of you barely talk to each other.’

She stated this fact as if the almost-total estrangement between Matilda, Ophelia and myself had somehow passed me by.

‘You don’t need to talk to a person every day to know they care about you,’ I told her. ‘My sisters know full well that I’m here for them. Our lives are simply very different, that’s all.’

‘Auntie Lia is the coolest,’ sighed Rosie. ‘A true free spirit rather than all those other fakers on Instagram. I wish my life was even half as exciting as hers is.’

‘There’s pickle on your chin,’ I informed her, passing across a napkin.

‘Didn’t you ever want to go travelling? See the world?’ Rosie was not about to let the subject drop.

‘When I was young and foolish maybe,’ I said.

‘You mean before you had me,’ Rosie replied. ‘If I hadn’t come along, you would have had time to do all sorts of fun things.’

‘Perhaps,’ I allowed, reaching across the table and tapping her lightly on the nose. ‘But none of those things would have been half as much fun as raising you. Aunt Lia might well be doing paddleboard yoga on the beach in Phuket, but I got to watch you take your first steps, say your first word, and blow your first raspberry.’

‘That last one obviously being the most important.’

‘Obviously.’

We smiled at each other, her blue eyes meeting my grey pair, and for a precious moment my anxiety ceased to thrum. Whatever I feared happening when we reached Corfu – how I would feel to be back and what emotional response the island would elicit – was nothing I couldn’t handle if I had my girl by my side. My proudest achievement, the beat of my heart, the air in my lungs. My everything.

When I thought about life in those terms, my role as ­Rosie’s mother so clearly defined and unequivocal, I felt strong. I believed I had the capacity to be invincible, that I was in control of my emotions. That was what I told myself.

We passed the time in the departures lounge window-­shopping, buying novels to read on the beach and playing ­endless card games, until finally it was time to board. As soon as we were in the air, an exhausted Rosie dropped off to sleep, her mouth slightly open and her lashes casting faint shadows across her cheeks, while I fidgeted beside her, fingers twisting together in my lap, chewing nervously at my lips, plastic glass of white wine untouched on the fold-down table in front of me.

When the plane began its descent, I stared towards a window painted black by night. I knew the sea was below us, that the now-muted landscape was a vibrant mix of golds, greens and blues – but I saw none of it. Right up until the tyres bounced and screeched across the runway, I continued to cling tight to my denial. But then came the standard announcement about the local time and weather, the seatbelt sign was switched off, and my daughter was rubbing her eyes, re-energised by excitement.

‘We made it at last – we’re finally here!’

Warm fuggy air greeted us, as I had known it would, wrapping itself around me like an old friend. It was all it took to break me, and I brushed the tears from my eyes before Rosie spotted them.

Passports were shown and stamped, suitcases collected, and soon the two of us were buckled into the back seat of a taxi. The Greek driver chatted away amicably with polite interest – Was this our first time in Corfu? Where had we come from in England? How long would we be staying? The whole of the summer? Bravo! – while Rosie peered out through the car window, calling out the things she saw when we passed the occasional streetlight.

‘Mopeds! The sea! A cat! Boats!’

Her enthusiasm was contagious, and I could not deny that it felt nice to be in Greece, to be able to see it again, smell it again, hear it again. It had been such a long time since I had last been on the island, yet everything was so familiar. I felt both stirred and soothed.

I knew from photographs, and, OK, maybe a little bit of time spent on Google, that Mattie and Niko’s home was a sizeable villa situated halfway up the hillside behind Kalami’s main road and the horseshoe-shaped bay below. Spread across three levels, with sea-facing balconies on each floor, it was a very large step up from the cluttered terrace we had left behind in Brighton. Rosie was instantly captivated, and as we pulled up outside she gazed up in reverent silence at the shuttered windows while I paid our fare and bid farewell to our driver.

‘Granny said the key will be underneath a pot,’ I told my daughter, only to then see, as I switched on the torch function of my mobile phone, that there were a great number of large terracotta pots placed at intervals along the front of the house.

‘Try the one closest to the entrance,’ I suggested, and Rosie pivoted it to one side.

‘Nope – nothing here.’

‘We’ll have to keep trying,’ I said. ‘You go right, I’ll go left.’

As I kept checking, I heard what sounded like metal scraping against concrete.

‘What was that?’ Rosie paused mid-squat.

‘Nothing,’ I replied, although we both knew it had been something. It occurred to me then how exposed we were, two women out in the dark. My bloody, bloody mother, I thought. And bloody, bloody Mattie for not secreting her key in a more helpful place. I debated if we should perhaps make our way down to the road, where there would be phone reception or an open bar. But before I had time to articulate any of this, there was another sound, this time loud enough to send Rosie scuttling along the pathway into my arms. We clung to one another as the front door creaked open, both of us emitting a scream of fright as an outraged bellow ripped through the darkness.

A man wearing just a pair of boxer shorts had emerged from inside the house with a menacing shout, a shovel in his hands that he brandished at us. In the seconds that ­followed, I ran the full gauntlet of fear, anger, and then ­realisation and mortification. But it was Rosie who ­recovered her ­composure first.

‘It’s OK, it’s only Uncle Niko,’ she said as he lowered his weapon. ‘Hello,’ she went on cheerfully. ‘You probably don’t even recognise me, do you? I’m your niece. Rosie.’

Niko glanced towards me, then back at her, his bewilderment clear. ‘Rosie?’

‘Yep,’ she confirmed. Letting go of me, she stepped towards him and took the shovel out of his hands. ‘We’re here to stay in your house for the summer, but you already know that, right? Can I go inside? I’m absolutely busting for a wee. That taxi took ages.’

‘Naí.’ It was barely a murmur.

‘Cool. Thanks,’ she said, assuming correctly that the word ‘naí’ was Greek for ‘yes’. Slipping past him into the house, she stretched out her hand and clicked on a light switch. Niko’s face was thrown into shadow, but I could still see his eyes.

Still feel them.

When he uttered my name, it was as if the intervening years had never passed, as if I was eighteen again, running along the beach in the darkness to be swept into waiting arms, to be kissed, caressed, and gazed at as ardently as if the stars had fallen from the sky and were shining out from within me.

I thought I had left that girl behind in Corfu half a lifetime ago, but I was wrong.

She was still here.

I was still her.

4

I stared.

He stared.

Neither one of us spoke.

The shovel, which Rosie had balanced against the outer wall, fell to the floor with a loud crash, snapping Niko out of whatever horrified trance he had fallen into at the sight of me. He opened his mouth, closed it again.

I heard bare feet hurrying across tiles.

‘What is going on down here— Oh. Oh my God – Ava?’

My sister Mattie appeared in the gap behind her husband, her thick dark curls sticking up at all angles. Of the three of us Fox siblings, she is the most like my father, and I registered his pale eyes and neat, oval face as she stepped into the light.

‘Hello,’ I said weakly.

‘This is . . .  What are you . . . ? What a lovely surprise.’

Mattie always defaulted to politeness.

Rosie had returned from the bathroom, and greeted her aunt with all the enthusiasm I should by rights have mustered up. Niko remained mute, standing there in his boxer shorts. The same dark hair that covered his head and jawline also spread across his chest, and when I allowed my gaze to inch downwards, I saw large hands and thick muscular thighs. The lithe youth of the past was very much a man now.

Mattie ushered me towards her with an outstretched hand and pulled me into an embrace. Embarrassed by the unexpected physical contact, I went limp.

‘You had no idea we were coming, did you?’ said Rosie.

‘None whatsoever,’ Mattie agreed.

Far from being perturbed by this, or even curious, the two of them merely laughed at the absurdity of it all, as if they were in on a joke that Niko and I were not.

‘Granny told us we were having this house for the summer and that you were having ours,’ my daughter explained. ‘Is that not the case?’

Mattie glanced towards her husband.

‘Niko, do you know anything about this? Did you and my mother cook up this little scheme between yourselves?’

We were all still crowded in the open doorway, and the temptation to bolt was a strong one. If I had not had Rosie with me, I would have fled.

Niko shook his head. ‘Ochi,’ he said firmly, glancing towards me and then reverting from his native tongue into English. ‘This is nothing to do with me. I have not spoken to your mother for many months.’

Hearing his voice, that baritone accent with its deliberate emphasis on each syllable, made me feel light-headed.

‘This must be her idea of a joke,’ I said. ‘A prank at my expense – send Ava off to Corfu under a misapprehension; she’s gullible enough to fall for it. How amusing it will be when she turns up unannounced.’

‘It wouldn’t have been amusing if Uncle Niko had bashed us over the head with his shovel,’ pointed out Rosie, to which Mattie laughed in delight.

Niko, I noted, did not protest.

‘This whole thing is probably my fault,’ said Mattie. ‘The last time I spoke to Mum, I told her I was sad about the fact that we had lost touch a bit, Ava, and how much I wished you and Rosie would agree to come for a holiday. This must be her way of ensuring we all saw each other. And, you have to hand it to the wily old bird – her plan appears to have worked perfectly.’

Wily was far too generous a word to describe my mother.

‘The last thing Rosie and I want to be is a burden,’ I said. I was already casting around for my suitcase, wondering how soon I could book us a flight home, plotting our escape from this hideous situation. As far as I was concerned, the holiday had come to an end.

‘A burden?’ exclaimed Mattie. ‘Don’t be daft – it’s brilliant that you’re here. And of course you must stay. We have plenty of room, and Rosie, you’re going to love the new pool. I’ve been dying to have some guests here to show it off to, and now here you both are. It’s a better turn of events than I could ever have wished for. Isn’t Granny clever?’

I gawped at her.

Clever?

Could she not see that this was agony? That being here, with her and with him, was breaking me apart from the inside out?

‘We can’t stay,’ I blurted. ‘This is your house – you don’t want us traipsing about all over. . .