‘How have you managed to break your arm?’ I shot up from the kitchen table, sending my fork flying. ‘You’re supposed to be on standby, and the floor’s finally dry.’

‘I know, I’m sorry, Tilly, I didn’t do it on purpose.’ The electrician sounded genuinely wretched. ‘I was showing my nephew a judo move and landed awkwardly,’ he said. ‘I was going to send my brother over, but he’s booked solid until the New Year. I’m so sorry.’

‘Shit.’ Bridget turned from the dishwasher to flash me a warning look, even though Romy was watching children’s television in the living room. I’d already had to explain that there wasn’t a ghost in my bedroom, I’d been chatting to a friend on the phone. ‘OK, well, thanks for letting me know,’ I said, modifying my tone. ‘You don’t have any electrician mates you could recommend, do you?’

‘I’ll see what I can do, but no promises.’

‘I need to know as soon as possible.’

‘I’ll call you.’

‘Thanks.’ When he’d rung off I stared at my phone. How could this have happened on the back of my promise to Meg?

‘Trouble?’ enquired Bridget. She’d finished haphazardly stacking the dishwasher, her face still flushed with pleasure that she’d unexpectedly produced an edible meal – albeit fish fingers with potato waffles and peas.

‘The mung bean stir fry burnt,’ she’d announced, when I entered the kitchen after talking to Meg, nose twitching at the smell of charred onions. ‘I haven’t got anything left, so we’ll have to make do with processed food tonight.’

‘YAY!’ Romy had cheered, clapping her hands, and proceeded to clear her plate with the enthusiasm of a diner at a Michelin-starred restaurant, only pausing to burp, then cackle with delight at her mother’s look of horror.

‘Nothing I can’t sort out,’ I said, hoping I sounded more confident than I felt.

‘You’ll have to be more organised if you’re serious about your business.’ As she rinsed her hands, I noticed she was still wearing the cheap, gold band that Chad had apparently put on her finger as a ‘statement of intent’ after she fell pregnant with Romy. ‘You should always have a back-up plan.’

‘I’ve never needed one,’ I bristled. ‘I’ve never not got a job done on time before.’ That didn’t sound grammatically correct, but she didn’t appear to notice.

‘Probably more good luck than management.’ She often seemed put out that things usually fell into place, as if it had more to do with serendipity than any hard work on my part. ‘I suppose it’s because you’re working for friends. They’ll forgive you if you mess up.’

‘I won’t mess up.’ I was stung by the unfairness. ‘You’ve no real idea what goes on in my life, Bee, so stop looking for something to criticise.’

It was the closest I’d come to starting an argument, and a measure of how rattled I was. People I cared about had big plans for the party on Christmas Eve, and the function room was still nowhere near finished with less than a week to go.

‘Don’t call me Bee.’ Bridget slammed the dishwasher shut and switched it on. Her hair looked wilder than ever, standing around her flushed face, and her eyes sparked with annoyance. The detritus of her culinary efforts was scattered across the worktop – bits of burnt beansprout, crumpled wrappers, badly diced carrots she’d forgotten to add to the stir-fry, and a swathe of crumbs from the loaf of bread she’d been comfort eating while ‘cooking’. Proof that, in spite of her accusations, she was human too.

‘What did you even do, all those years in Vancouver?’ She folded her arms and leaned against the worktop. ‘Loll about, I suppose, while I was working sixteen hours a day.’ She clearly couldn’t wait for me to answer.

‘It was your choice to stay behind.’ I put down the cloth I’d picked up to wipe the table with. ‘I wanted to spend time getting to know our grandparents, and help Mum and Dad look after them when they got ill.’

Bridget’s shoulders slumped. I knew she’d loved Gran and Grandpa. Mum had told me that Bridget missed them terribly when they decided to move to Vancouver, where Grandpa had been born and raised. ‘You got the best bits,’ I said. ‘I was too young to remember them before they left.’

‘I suppose.’ The fight flowed out of her. ‘I was pissed off at them for ages.’

‘They weren’t in the best of health by the time we moved there,’ I said, though in truth, it was only during the last year or so that things had gone downhill. I smiled, remembering Grandpa, with his hair as white as salt, who’d loved his tools but was rubbish at DIY, and Gran, who’d given the tightest hugs and smelt of lavender hand cream. ‘Also, I was at university for a while,’ I reminded her, keen to put her straight on the ‘lolling about’ issue. ‘And I travelled a lot.’

‘Oh, travelling, how lovely.’ She made a sour face, so I decided not to detail the places we’d visited: Niagara Falls, where the air was crisp and cool, and I’d felt the spray on my cheeks as the water plunged with a deafening roar, like a thick, white curtain; the majesty of the Canadian Rockies and the vast, wild beauty of Jasper National Park. She knew anyway, because Mum and Dad had constantly sent her emails and pictures, determined not to lose contact with their eldest daughter, even if she gave every impression of not caring. ‘With Mummy and Daddy,’ she sniped, reverting to being a teenager.

‘Nothing wrong with travelling with your parents, if you get on with them.’ The truth was, I enjoyed my parents’ company, whether it was idling in dressing gowns with coffee and the Sunday supplements, or whale watching in Vancouver.

‘Is that a dig at me?’

‘No, Bridget, it was just an observation.’

We eyeballed each other for a moment. Time to flip the switch. ‘I got you a date,’ I said lightly. ‘With Seth Donovan.’

‘You did?’ Immediately her eyes lit up.

I nodded. ‘He’s going to take you out for a meal. At The Mill in Kingsbridge.’ I hoped he’d remember.

‘Really?’ Her expression had changed from rage to eagerness, and she thudded into the chair opposite. ‘Tell me exactly what he said.’

‘Er, he said he’d like to take you out to dinner.’ Seeing she expected more, I embellished a little. ‘He thinks you’re beautiful and he can’t wait to meet you.’

‘Oh. My. God.’ Flumping back, she fanned herself with her hand in a very unBridget-like gesture. ‘I’m actually going on a date with Seth Donovan?’ Her voice rose at the end, turning it into a question. I nodded, pleased with the effect my news was having. ‘Is he as hot in real life?’

I pretended to give it some thought – remembered the sight of his naked stomach and muscular thighs at the swimming pool – and nodded again. ‘Hotter,’ I said, feeling the word somehow did Seth an injustice. ‘I mean, he’s attractive, yes, but there’s more to him than that.’

Bridget’s forehead rolled into a frown. ‘What do you mean?’

‘He’s… he seems like a really nice person.’ I wasn’t adequately conveying the essence of him. ‘He’s struggling a bit with his son, though.’

Now I felt disloyal, especially when Bridget looked meaningfully in the direction of the living room, and said, ‘Well, perhaps I can introduce him to some of Frida’s child-rearing methods.’

‘Maybe.’ Judging by the angry Cockney accents emerging from the television – reminding me of Gwen – Romy wasn’t even watching CBeebies, she was watching EastEnders. Unless Phil Mitchell was voicing Bedtime Stories. ‘Although Jack’s a few years older than Romy.’

‘Like a big brother,’ said Bridget, clearly getting carried away. ‘Frida says it’s good to mix with children of different ages, as they can learn from each other.’ She grabbed a handful of the half-eaten loaf on the table, then dropped it as though it had burnt her. ‘Should I lose weight?’

It was so unlike her to ask for advice, I was momentarily lost for words. ‘Of course not,’ I said, when the silence had gone on too long. ‘You actually look great at the moment.’ She gave a disbelieving snort. ‘I mean, you might want to tidy your hair, and wear something nice, but you don’t need to try too hard.’

‘Really?’ She looked at the blouse she had on – one of Mum’s, with a fussy pie-crust collar. For some reason, Mum was stuck in the eighties style-wise, her wardrobe filled with swishy, long-sleeved dresses, slouchy boots, jumpsuits and frilly blouses. ‘None of my things fit me since I came home.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t help on that front.’ My own style was casual, bordering on ‘student’, consisting mostly of jeans, T-shirts, hoodies and sneakers. On special occasions, I might whip out a checked shirt or a drop-shouldered top, and I once wore a maxi-dress, but made it more casual by wearing a biker jacket. Due to my height, and lack of hips and boobs, I couldn’t carry off a girly look, or the sort of power dressing my sister had favoured, pre-motherhood. I didn’t own anything designer, and lost my sense of gravity in high heels. ‘We’ll sort something out, don’t worry.’

‘Did you give him my number?’ Her eyes had a sparkle I hadn’t seen for… actually, I couldn’t remember seeing them sparkle the way they were right now. ‘Do you even know my mobile number?’

I didn’t, as we weren’t in the habit of calling each other. Anything of note in my life was relayed to her by Mum in their weekly phone call, and she’d report back to me about what Bridget was up to. ‘I’m going to the cottage tomorrow so I can give it to him then, or, better still, tell me when you’d like to meet and I’ll pass it on.’

‘I think I’d like to speak to him myself.’ She was already slipping into bossy-mode. ‘You might get something wrong, or forget altogether.’

‘I’d hardly forget something like that.’ I wished she’d have a bit more faith in me. Already, her approval from the day before felt like a distant memory.

‘Remember when Todd Fogarty rang the house and asked you to let me know he’d got the mumps and couldn’t pick me up to take me to the cinema?’

‘I was seven,’ I pointed out. ‘I only answered the phone because I thought it might be Father Christmas replying to my letter.’

Bridget rolled her eyes. ‘I can’t believe you still believed in Father Christmas when you were seven.’

‘Shush.’ I jerked my head at the living room. ‘You don’t want Romy to hear you say that.’

‘I’m not sure I should be encouraging her to believe a strange man creeps into her bedroom every year. What if it gives her a false sense of security and one day, when she’s older, she’s faced with a burglar or worse in the middle of the night and thinks it’s normal?’

I couldn’t help laughing. ‘Bridget, that’s ridiculous, of course she won’t.’ Seeing she wasn’t convinced, I added, ‘You could always leave her presents downstairs under the tree, to be on the safe side.’

‘He’ll still have been in the house,’ she protested, as though she too believed in Santa.

‘Well, what did you tell her last year?’

‘We were in the Swiss Alps last year, and sort of glossed over Christmas. She was too young to understand it all, anyway.’

‘Oh, Bee, you’re never too young to understand Christmas.’ I leaned forward and placed my chin in the V of my hands. ‘Don’t you remember how lovely our Christmases were growing up? The lengths Mum and Dad went to, to make sure it was special?’

She gave a one-shouldered shrug. ‘Maybe for you,’ she said. ‘Remember, I’d long grown out of Christmas by the time you were old enough to appreciate it.’

‘It was still a lovely time, though.’

I knew there were photos in big fat albums on the bookcase in the living room and was about to leap up and get them, keen to capitalise on her good humour about Seth, when she said, ‘I know Mum and Dad really tried, but I suppose what sticks in my mind are the miscarriages before you came along.’

My mind stilled. I knew there’d been lost babies in the ten years before I was born, because Mum had explained when I’d asked her once, why I didn’t have brothers (convinced they’d be better than sisters, as Bridget was so unsuitable). She’d skipped over her explanation, referring to it as ‘trying hard’ and rounding off with ‘It was all worth it when you came along, sweet pea.’

‘The miscarriages weren’t my fault,’ I said, surprised to hear a slight wobble in my voice. Cassie’s pregnant. What must it be like to lose a baby? Not once, but four times? I’d never discussed it with Mum, and she never referred to it either. It wasn’t something you brought up over the dinner table – especially as Mum was such a happy person, and had never given any signs of someone suffering. But then again, why would she, once I came along?

‘You didn’t see her then, but I had to live with it,’ said Bridget, as though she’d read my mind. ‘Two Christmases our parents were all excited about a new baby, and two Christmases were ruined because it didn’t happen. Mum was all mopey, and even though she tried to be excited for me, I’d catch her crying in the kitchen, or her bedroom.’

I looked at Bridget – saw sadness etched in the fine lines round her eyes. ‘She tried, though, because that’s how much Mum cared about your happiness.’ I paused. ‘And I saw her crying plenty, after you left home.’

Bridget’s fingers, which had been absently plucking at the loaf of bread, froze in mid-air. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You know how much Mum and Dad missed and worried about you. It’s not like she never mentioned it.’

‘I was old enough to look after myself.’ Bridget’s voice held a trace of old defiance. ‘I didn’t need them.’

‘No, but you cut yourself off so completely, were so independent, it left them reeling, Bee. Especially Mum. You were her grown-up girl,’ I said. ‘That’s what she used to call you. My grown-up girl, in the city, meeting god knows who.’

Bridget’s eyes went glassy. ‘I thought… because she had you…’ She stopped and chewed her lip.

‘It was never a competition,’ I said. ‘There was room for us both in her heart, but I was here and you’d gone.’ Before she could respond, I leapt up. ‘Wait here a minute.’

I left the kitchen and made my way to Dad’s office, pausing to glance in the living room. Romy was curled in the armchair, cuddling her teddy, her eyes reflecting the glare from the television. EastEnders had finished and she looked engrossed in DIY SOS, which I figured was harmless enough.

In the office, I stood for a moment, breathing in the familiar scent of leather, books and a faint hint of Dad’s ‘Eau Sauvage’ aftershave, which I once overheard Mum say ‘drove her wild’. His trophies lined a shelf – one for heading up a successful housing redevelopment in the eighties, another for his work on a yachtsman’s house making use of natural light – and the duck-egg blue walls (painted by me) were lined with framed certificates, and cards from grateful clients over the years. I felt a pang of missing him; his smile, which pulled me in like a cuddle, his gravelly laugh – never far from the surface – and the way he prefaced his sentences with As Oscar Wilde once said… or To quote a man wiser than me… Dad was well read, as evidenced by the stuffed shelves, which was probably where I’d got my love of reading growing up.

I picked up a photo from his leather-topped desk, of him and Mum sitting on the flowery sofa in our old house – where Dad’s parents had lived before they moved to Canada. Mum’s hair was over-bleached, and Dad’s shirt had enormous lapels, but their happiness crackled from the glass. They’d fallen in love that summer, according to Mum, when she’d gone to work for his father’s building company as a secretary, and had been inseparable ever since.

There was another photo of me as a young child, on a tartan picnic blanket on a stretch of grass, playing with a plastic tea set, a dreamy smile on my face, and another of Bridget dressed for a birthday party as a princess, scowling into the lens.

Turning away, I grabbed what I’d been looking for, and took it back to the kitchen. Bridget was still at the table, tracing circles in the wood with her finger, looking pensive.

‘Here.’ I laid down a slim plastic case with a handwritten label on the front. ‘Dad edited and transferred our home videos onto this DVD a while ago. Have a look at it sometime, there’s a player in my bedroom.’

‘Why?’ She touched the case gingerly, as if it might evaporate.

‘Because you’ll see that your memories have become distorted, and there were some happy times when you were a child.’

‘Oh, I haven’t got time for trips down memory lane.’ She pushed herself up from the table, but her eyes stayed on the disc as though magnetised. ‘And neither have you,’ she added. ‘What time do you have to be at the cottage tomorrow?’

‘I didn’t arrange a particular time.’

She huffed out a little laugh. ‘Still not treating your job like a business.’

I could feel a pulse beating in my throat. ‘I’ll be there at ten, OK?’

‘Good. I’ll text you my mobile number.’

Typical that she had mine even though she’d never used it.

As I rose, and headed back up to my bedroom, jumping when Romy shouted ‘HOUSE!’ I sent up a prayer that Seth was ready to meet a woman with a chip the size of New Zealand on her shoulder.