‘Who put those there?’ I turned back to the counter, heart thumping as though I’d been chased.

Gwen had finished her cleaning and was peering at the customer’s bill as though it was written in Sanskrit. ‘Put what, where?’ she said.

‘The artwork?’

Her eyes twitched to the wall. ‘Oh, those,’ she said, as if she hadn’t noticed the wall had been covered with pictures. ‘That bloke wot painted the sign for the caff put ’em up,’ she said. ‘The fit one.’

I’d known she was going to say it before I asked – not the bit about Danny being fit, accompanied by an unpleasant leer – because who else could it have been?

‘Dunno who the artist is, but she’s got a way with a pencil, I’ll give her that,’ Gwen added, her sly look telling me she knew very well that the artist was me. ‘I like the cartoon ones best.’

Having assumed she’d be at best indifferent, at worst scathing, my cheeks began to heat up – even though I was fuming with Danny for hanging the pictures without telling me, or even asking permission. ‘Thanks,’ I said, ungraciously.

‘I like your exhibition,’ Tamsin said shyly, her wide, grey gaze briefly landing on mine. ‘I’d like to buy the one of a cat up a tree when I get paid, if no one else does.’

‘Oh god, no, they’re not for sale.’ I was horrified by the thought.

‘Why not?’ said the customer who’d been shamelessly eavesdropping while paying his bill. ‘Isn’t that the point of an exhibition?’

‘It’s not really an exhibition.’ It’s a motley collection of drawings and paintings that have been stuffed in my grandmother’s attic for years.

‘My wife’s got her eye on the stormy one,’ the man said, turning to point it out. ‘She likes a good storm, does Evelyn. Says it reminds her of the year our son was born.’

‘How lovely.’ A swell of emotion rose in my chest. Someone wanted to buy it?

Trying to look at the pictures as though they were nothing to do with me, I decided that maybe they didn’t look too bad – even quite professional – from a distance. With my eyes half closed.

‘How much?’ the man said, cocking a bushy white eyebrow.

‘Sorry?’

‘For the storm?’

Flustered, I pulled up my sleeves, then tugged them down when I remembered the rash on my wrist. ‘I, er, well… I…’ haven’t got a clue. What did artists (was I really calling myself an artist?) charge for their work? I could hardly whip out my phone and google it. ‘Ummmm…’ Scrunching up my face, I tried to remember whether I’d seen any prices on Vicky Burton’s website, but drew a blank. I remembered that one of Connor Daley’s paintings would have set me back £750, but there was no way I could even think about charging half that much.

‘I think that one’s a hundred and twenty.’ Gwen’s gravelly voice brought my tortured musing to an end. ‘We ’ain’t got round to putting the prices on yet. They only went up this morning, mate.’

A hundred and twenty? That was ridiculous. There was no way anyone would consider forking out for—

‘Sounds reasonable,’ the man said, seeming not to notice I’d gone rigid with embarrassment as he tugged out his wallet. ‘Is cash OK?’

Oh god, yes. ‘That would be, um…’ I cleared my throat. ‘That would be fine.’ Surely I was dreaming? This sort of thing didn’t happen in real life. ‘Let me just get you the picture.’

Flashing Gwen a grateful look, which she pretended not to see, I negotiated the tables on legs that felt a bit wobbly and took down the painting. Danny had hung it on proper brass picture hooks. I handed it to the man, who passed it to a lively-faced woman with a shock of silver-grey hair, whom I assumed was Evelyn.

‘It’s going above the fireplace,’ she said, a little smile on her lips as she angled her head to assess my painting up close.

I tried not to look as bashful as I felt. ‘I hope you enjoy it,’ I said, my mortification deepening as her husband handed over a wad of folded notes. I felt as if I’d mugged him.

‘John Langham.’ He shook my clammy hand. ‘Are you working on anything new?’

‘Oh, I, erm, I might…’ not be staying that long, I was about to say, but – still pumping my hand – John Langham had moved on.

‘Let us know, we’d be interested in taking a look.’

‘Do you take commissions?’ asked Evelyn, clutching my painting (my painting!) to her tweed-jacketed chest.

‘Commissions?’

‘My daughter would love someone to paint her greyhound, Boo-Boo. She did ask someone else, but it was a bit of a disaster. Looked more like a donkey when he’d finished.’

‘Oh,’ I said, feeling as if I’d climbed on a fairground ride that was lifting me in the air. ‘Er, when was she thinking of having it done?’

‘Whenever you’re available, dear. I expect you work from photographs?’ Not waiting for an answer, she continued, ‘I could get her to email one over to you, if you like? Unless you’d rather go out to the house, but it’s so much easier with the internet these days, isn’t it?’

‘It is,’ I said, with an increasing feeling of unreality. ‘Email would be fine, for now.’ John plucked a gold pen from the inside pocket of his jacket and wrote my email address on a serviette.

‘Excellent,’ he said and, just like the evening before, some beaming occurred, which I readily joined in with, hoping it looked natural – as if I’d been expecting this to happen from the second I stepped in the café, and not as if I couldn’t believe my luck.

‘Have a lovely day,’ I called, as they left with their newly acquired artwork, painted by Yours Truly.

‘Oh my god, did you see that?’ I swung round to see Tamsin hovering behind me, holding a tray laden with cups and saucers. ‘They bought one of my paintings!’

‘I know.’ Her face melted into a delighted smile, and when spontaneous applause broke out, I realised I’d been the subject of some interested scrutiny from the other customers, who now started wandering over to take a closer look at my pictures. ‘Would you mind saving the cat one for me?’

‘Of course not,’ I said, overwhelmed. Whatever was happening – and I couldn’t quite compute what it was – I was starting to enjoy it very much. ‘I’ll put it out the back and you can take it home.’

‘Oh, no, not until I’ve paid you.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ I said. ‘Until today they were stuffed in a box, and no one but my nan had seen them for ages.’ And Danny Fleetwood. I tried to locate the anger I’d felt just fifteen minutes ago. He’d taken a massive gamble and I could have become a complete laughing stock, but, unbelievably, it looked like it might have paid off. I wondered how he’d persuaded Mum and Dad to let him hang them, and as I took the cat painting out to the storeroom, I heard their voices floating through from the office.

‘… still wonder whether we did the right thing,’ Mum was saying. Her voice sounded muffled, as though she’d been crying, which was odd. The last time I’d seen Mum cry was when we watched Marley and Me a few Christmases ago, but we’d all cried then, even Dad, and vowed to never again watch a film featuring animals, in case they died.

‘… have to stay strong, as usual,’ Dad replied, and his voice sounded strained – not at all smooth with its usual hint of humour. I felt a whisper of unease. Was one of them ill? Maybe they didn’t want Rob and me to know. But surely I’d have noticed if either of them had seemed unwell? Although, in the past, I had missed little details; like the time Dad lost weight after taking up running, losing his little pot belly and double chin; and when Mum was talked into having her eyebrows threaded, she’d had to ask me the next time we Skyped whether they looked more streamlined. She’d sworn she’d never felt pain like it – even childbirth – and hadn’t bothered again.

Maybe I hadn’t been as observant as I could have been.

‘There are no rules, that’s the trouble,’ Dad was saying now, sounding weary in a way I’d never heard before. ‘We’ve been making it up as we go along, assuming we were doing the right thing.’

A pebble of worry dropped into my stomach as Mum said something I couldn’t quite catch, and Dad gave a mirthless laugh. ‘We made our bed a long time ago, Lydia. It’s too late to change now.’

What was that supposed to mean? I only caught the last part of Mum’s next sentence, which sounded as if it was being spoken through a crumpled tissue, ‘… be here until the day we bloody well die.’

My heart did a violent dip. She sounded so… bitter. Like Rob had last night, when he’d accused me of not talking to him properly since I’d lived in London. I’d never heard her talk like that, spitting words out like pips. Mum was normally so calm and sensible and cheerful. Lovely, was the word most people would use to describe her. Lovely Lydia. Not bitter.

‘… talk to her about it if you like,’ Dad said, sounding like his usual caring self again, and I imagined him pulling Mum into his arms and stroking her hair, like he used to do with me whenever I’d had a bad dream after watching Goosebumps.

‘No, we don’t want to influence her,’ Mum said. ‘It wouldn’t be fair, that’s not how we do things, remember?’

‘It would be nice to try though, wouldn’t it?’ Dad sounded uncharacteristically wistful, and I no longer had the impression either of them was ill. It must be something else. Who was ‘she’? I wondered. Nan? Could it be something to do with Nan’s latest fad? But they’d never seemed this concerned before, even during her flying phase.

I knew I ought to reveal myself and ask what was going on. I might even be able to help, though it was a strange concept. Mum and Dad had never sought Rob’s or my advice about anything, because they didn’t believe in putting unnecessary pressure on us – even though we probably wouldn’t have minded – and because they’d, presumably, never needed it.

‘… just carry on as usual. We don’t want her thinking anything’s up,’ Dad said.

Oh god, maybe one of them was ill, and they didn’t want Nan to know.

‘I suppose.’ Mum sounded resigned now, but no longer tearful. ‘It’s just so much harder than I thought it would be.’

I scratched at my wrist, which only made the itch worse, and was about to go into the office and say something – though I had no idea what – when the door opened fully and Mum and Dad came out.

‘Cassie, love!’ Mum looked so delighted to see me I was momentarily taken aback. ‘What are you doing out here?’

Eavesdropping. ‘Just, erm…’ I indicated vaguely in the direction of the store room.

‘Did you see your paintings?’ Dad joined her, placing a solid arm around her shoulders. ‘Don’t they look lovely?’

‘You don’t mind, do you?’ Mum’s voice had tensed up. ‘I did wonder whether we should have asked you first.’

‘Well…’

‘Danny thought you’d say no if we did, so we let him go ahead.’ Dad was smiling genially, and they both looked and sounded so normal I could almost believe I’d imagined the conversation in the office. ‘He brought them from your nan’s house.’

‘I didn’t realise she had them.’ Mum’s (unthreaded) eyebrows rose a fraction. ‘We’d have loved to have hung them up at home.’

‘You would?’

‘Of course,’ said Dad, his forehead wrinkling, as if it was perfectly obvious. ‘You just never seemed that bothered, back then.’

‘She never showed us her paintings, did she?’ Mum said to Dad, but not in a way that indicated she was upset about it – just puzzled.

‘Hardly ever,’ Dad agreed.

It was true, I’d been secretive about my art. It wasn’t that I’d been ashamed, it just felt private somehow, and showing people – apart from Nan – too revealing in a way I hadn’t really understood. Also, although I’d loved painting and drawing at the time, I didn’t really believe I was any good. Not good enough to become an artist, like Vicky Burton and Connor Daley. It had never even occurred to me.

‘I’ve sold one,’ I said, trying not to look as if I was checking Mum’s eyes. It was hard to see properly in the passageway, but there was no sign of any redness, and Dad’s face was arranged in a pleasantly relaxed expression that looked totally natural.

‘Already?’ He exchanged happy looks with Mum. ‘Cassie, that’s wonderful!’

‘I know,’ I said, deciding that now wasn’t the moment to confront them. I had a feeling they’d be embarrassed if they knew I’d been listening, and if they had something to tell me and Rob, or Nan, they’d do it in their own time. ‘I’ve put one aside for Tamsin.’

‘You’re so clever.’ Mum reached out to press her palms against my cheeks. They were slightly damp – the only hint that perhaps she wasn’t as OK as she seemed on the surface. ‘We’re so proud of you.’

It was what she always said, and although it was good to hear, it felt a bit off somehow. Like when she’d praise a particularly wonky sandcastle when I young, or the burnt-round-the-edges fairy cakes I’d made at school. I’m so proud of you, love, you’re so clever. Was she still humouring me? Being kind, just as she’d been back then, because it’s what mums did?

Before I could ponder it any further, Gwen hollered Mum’s name.

‘Oops, duty calls,’ Dad sang, and they bolted into the café as if suddenly remembering they had jobs there. I followed behind with the nagging feeling that things weren’t what they seemed.