The first sound I heard as I entered the house, an hour later, tins of paint stashed in the boot of my car, was my niece banging a spoon on a pan lid (her favourite pastime). The second was Bridget, clapping and cheering as though her daughter had just composed her first symphony. I scoped the hallway for an invisible route to the stairs, hoping I wouldn’t be spotted, which was pretty much how I’d felt since the night my sister returned a month ago, cradling two-year-old Romy like a priceless vase.

‘Hi,’ she’d said, into the stupefied silence that had followed. Bridget rarely travelled up from London, and never alone, and we’d been innocently watching Say Yes to the Dress (even Dad had been reduced to a puddle of tears when one of the fathers saw his daughter’s meringue-like creation), and we couldn’t quite comprehend that she was there, looking less like the Bridget we thought we knew.

‘I need some bonding time with my daughter,’ she’d announced, pressing a squirming Romy against her shoulder. ‘I’ve taken a few months’ unpaid leave from work, rented out the house, and I’m moving home for a while.’ She’d audibly swallowed before continuing, as if on the verge of sobbing – except Bridget considered crying to be a weakness. ‘My daughter’s so precious and perfect…’ another pause, while she scattered kisses on Romy’s soft swirl of hair, ‘and I won’t have her messed up by that… by becoming the product of a broken family.’

Her gaze had briefly hardened into defiance before she’d added, ‘She needs to get to know her grandparents,’ as though Romy didn’t have an auntie present too, and as if our parents hadn’t tried to get their hands on their first and only grandchild since coming back from Canada. ‘She’s missing her father, and the house feels too big without him, and I…’ more swallowing, while we’d continued to gawp ‘… I need a break from London.’ Our jaws had finally dropped. Bridget Campbell, finance manager at one of Britain’s leading airlines, and self-confessed control freak, was admitting to needing a break. ‘Also, I can’t find an au pair capable of meeting Romy’s needs.’ She made Romy sound like an invalid, instead of an apparently robust toddler. ‘As her mother, I’m the only one who can do that,’ she’d continued, seeming unaware that Romy was tugging her mother’s hair out of its toppling bun, while intermittently shouting ‘HUNGRY!’ at the top of her lungs.

Once Mum had recovered the power of speech and suggested that Romy might need something to eat, Bridget had dug a banana out of her bag, peeled it, and fed her daughter a tiny piece, insisting any more would upset the eating routine she’d implemented, before spiriting Romy to the spare bedroom and tucking the wailing child into the neatly made-up bed.

At first, there’d been some novelty value in this new, Perfect Mum version of Bridget, but her general disdain (mostly of me) meant it had quickly worn thin. She didn’t appreciate Mum and Dad’s input, implying they were doing everything wrong, despite their very best efforts. Having missed the first year of their granddaughter’s life they’d been keen to make amends once we were home, pleading to be allowed to take care of Romy while Bridget and her partner Chad had a little break, but Bridget didn’t do little breaks, and was reluctant to relinquish control. Secretly, we’d been amazed she’d found time to have a child in the first place, and even more so that she hadn’t immediately returned to work. Bridget had been even more fiercely anti-motherhood than I was, and completely focused on her career – until she’d met Chad Drummond.

Until that point, despite running her life with military precision, my sister had shown appalling taste in men. There’d been a short-lived marriage in her twenties to a Frenchman who’d smoked cigars and drank little cups of espresso all day, followed by a fling with a minor politician who’d turned out to be gay, and a two-year affair with a Turkish man called Alvin, who’d worked in a call centre but wanted to be an actor. All had been dispensed with, once she’d realised she couldn’t mould them, and then she’d met Charming Chad, who’d worked at the café where she allowed herself brunch on Sunday mornings. He’d turned out to be the love of her life, despite the job being part-time, and his work ethic underdeveloped. A self-styled inventor, he’d held a deep-seated conviction he was on the verge of producing something the world couldn’t live without; like a plastic handle that attached to a can of drink, so it could be held like a mug.

‘Why not just tip the drink into a mug?’ Dad had queried – not unreasonably – when Chad pitched up one night and tried to persuade Dad to invest in his scheme so he could ‘surprise’ Bridget by becoming worthy of her affection.

‘It was worth a try,’ he said, in his charming way (I’d liked him) when Dad had declined the ‘opportunity of a lifetime’. ‘I’ll have to do it another way.’

‘Another way’ had been to book a flight to New York a week later, and to promise Bridget that when he’d found his fortune and could make her and his daughter proud, he’d be back for good – news she’d conveyed briskly to Mum during their weekly phone catch-up, giving every impression it was nothing more than a blip in her neatly ordered life.

Clearly it had been more than that for her to want to return home and share a roof with her family for the first time in over twenty years – even if she’d made it plain she wanted things done her own way.

‘I still can’t believe you sent Mum and Dad on a cruise.’ Her voice halted my tiptoeing progress across the polished-wood floor, and I turned to see her watching me from the living room doorway, arms folded across her thickly cardiganed chest. The old Bridget – whose LinkedIn profile described her as managing a portfolio of accounts and driving more than £14 million a year in revenue – wouldn’t have been seen dead in a cardigan. She’d mostly worn satiny blouses, tucked into tapered trousers, and maybe a fitted jacket over the top, depending on the weather. The old Bridget had been sleek and streamlined, her autumn-red curls fiercely straightened, her face subtly made-up to hide her peppering of freckles, her diet strictly controlled and mostly green. This Bridget – though still undeniably stunning – had plumped up on a diet of carbs, her curls were held off her forehead with a bulldog clip, and her freckles stood out like crayon dots. I’d always envied them.

‘I didn’t send them on a cruise.’ I tried to keep my body language relaxed, as Romy’s pan-symphony ramped up a level, accompanied by intermittent shrieks. ‘The cruise was already booked, they’d been looking forward to it, and I didn’t think they should cancel.’

‘And what you say goes around here.’ She seemed to think I’d deliberately encouraged the cruise to punish her for coming back and stealing my limelight, which was utter rubbish. I’d given her the ‘Dad’s worked hard all his life and always put family first, and now he’s finally retired it’s time for him and Mum to have some fun’, speech, but she’d taken that as a personal criticism. They’d wanted more children after Bridget was born, and had been nearly forty by the time I came along, and were now approaching seventy – too old for the level of childminding that Romy seemed to require, even if Bridget was reluctant to give them full rein (or any rein at all). It was clear Romy missed her dad – who’d apparently been as hands-on as Bridget would allow – and would often wake crying in the night. I’d seen how it was taking its toll on Mum; dark circles under her eyes from getting up when Romy refused Bridget’s attempts at consolation. Even Dad – already at a bit of a loss without work to define his days – had started to stay out of the house for hours on end, after Bridget had criticised his attempts at engaging with his granddaughter.

‘Don’t do that, you might drop her,’ she’d cry, surging forward to grab Romy as he swung her in the air, petting the child as though Dad had planned to throw her out of the window. ‘Yes, I know you’ve raised two children,’ she’d answer his protests. ‘But things were different then.’

I wasn’t even allowed near my niece. Bridget apparently had no faith in my ability to be a good auntie, so consequently neither did I. The one time I’d picked up Romy as a baby, drawn by her cherubic smile and chubby, flailing arms, Bridget had yelled so loudly at me to put her down, she’d almost slipped from my grasp.

‘You don’t pick her up when she’s calm or she’ll come to rely on it,’ she’d said, wrestling her daughter back into her sling where she’d promptly burst into tears. It wasn’t long after Romy’s birth, and Bridget had flown out to Canada for our grandfather’s funeral. I couldn’t deny a swell of relief when she’d returned to London the next day – or the flare of sadness that followed, that we didn’t have the sort of sibling closeness I’d witnessed among friends who had sisters.

‘They haven’t even been in touch,’ said Bridget, snapping me back to the moment. ‘It’s not like there isn’t a signal on the boat. You’d think with Skype and so on, they’d be on the phone all the time.’

I didn’t mention I’d suggested they didn’t call, in order to have a proper break, and it was a measure of how fraught things had become that they’d readily agreed.

‘How’s the regime going?’ I said, unwilling to provoke an argument. It happened all too often in Bridget’s company, to my endless dismay. She’d resented my presence since I ended her reign as the only child, thirty years ago, and nothing much had changed in the decades since. ‘Are you still following the book?’

‘It’s not a regime,’ she said. ‘I’m hardly Kim Jong-un. And, yes, I’m trying.’

The book was a child-rearing tome Bridget had brought with her, written by a Danish woman with too much hair and a whimsical smile, who’d had her own TV show called Hygge Parenting. Its philosophies of play, authenticity, reframing (to help kids cope with setbacks and look on the bright side), empathy, togetherness, and No Ultimatums were fine in theory, but ignored the importance of Boundaries – even I could see that’s what Romy needed during this transitional period in her young life – and clashed completely with Bridget’s controlling nature.

‘She’s due some lunch.’ Bridget glanced at the watch she’d taken to wearing, that used to belong to Dad. ‘I just let her get this…’ she made a circling motion with her hand at the room behind her ‘… out of her system first, so that she feels cleansed.’

I wondered how she could bear the noise, but knew better than to say anything. I wasn’t a mother so I had no idea, as Bridget had pointed out before I left for the café, when I’d queried why she’d let Romy switch on the television downstairs at seven a.m. and turn the volume to maximum. If we’d had neighbours either side, we’d have been reported for disturbing the peace. ‘Frida says I mustn’t acknowledge negative behaviour,’ she’d said, as if she had a hotline to the author. ‘You wouldn’t understand, not being a parent.’ I’d left her to it, reassured that at least Romy had been smiling, even if Bridget wasn’t as she stirred a pan of something smoking on the stove.

‘Shall I go say hello?’ I tried to peer past Bridget, but she shunted sideways to block my view.

‘Please, leave her alone.’

Jeez. ‘I just think, you know, you should maybe tell her you want her to stop. It can’t be much fun listening to—’

‘Fun?’ She pulled her head in so far, a double chin appeared. ‘That’s your favourite word, isn’t it, Tilly? Fun.’ She might as well have said murder. ‘As long as you’re having fun, life’s a peach.’ Do not respond. Do not respond. ‘Is that what you’ve been doing?’ Her wide-set ocean-coloured eyes – a perfect blend of our parents’ – scanned my peculiar outfit and thinned to slits. ‘Rolled out of your boyfriend’s bed and couldn’t find your own clothes?’ Before I could respond, she held up a finger. ‘Wait, what’s his name again? Robbie… Ricky?’

‘Rufus, actually.’

‘Rufus?’ Her expression smoothed out; became interested. ‘You’re still seeing him then? The guy dad recommended.’ Now he sounded like a brand of floor cleaner. ‘Good for you.’ She nodded slowly. ‘This must be the longest you’ve ever dated anyone.’

‘True.’ I swelled a little. Bridget sounded impressed, which hardly ever happened – scrap that; she was never impressed by me – and I liked it. ‘We’re going to his brother’s wedding on Saturday.’

‘Really?’ Her eyebrows rose. ‘A wedding? It must be getting serious.’

‘M-hmm.’ Was she smiling? She definitely wasn’t frowning.

‘He seemed really nice when he came to pick you up last week,’ she said, though to my knowledge, she’d barely noticed him. I’d shot out of the front door the second he rang the bell, unwilling to indulge Dad’s Why don’t we get both families together for a meal, now you two are an item? fantasy. ‘Good for you, Tilly. It’s about time you had a grown-up relationship.’

Why did those three words put my back up so much? What was a grown-up relationship, anyway? One where you discussed Brexit without arguing, and remembered each other’s birthdays? It wasn’t as if Bridget had any room to talk, but I bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself saying so. I’d heard her crying in her room when she thought no one was around. I knew, in spite of herself, she desperately missed Charming Chad. Plus, I still had a long-buried hope that, one day, my sister and I would have a conversation as equals. Friends, even.

‘What with all the work you’ve got coming in you’re almost a fully-fledged adult these days.’ She leaned against the door frame, seemingly enjoying herself now. ‘Where is this design job you mentioned you had lined up?’

My brain scrabbled for a response she’d find acceptable, and couldn’t find one. ‘Actually, it’s fallen through.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Isn’t it about time you set yourself up as a proper business?’ she said. ‘I thought you were getting a website, doing it properly.’

‘I was… I am.’ At least, that had been the plan, after listening to her go on about it one evening over dinner – how having an amazing career would be defining, and that I should try it sometime, which had fired some ridiculous notion of trying to make her proud.

‘Actually, I do have another job since this morning.’

‘Oh?’

‘I’ve been asked to redesign a cottage for someone in Seashell Cove.’ Behind her, Romy had given up with the pan and spoon and was yodelling.

‘You’re never away from that place,’ said Bridget. ‘Who is this client?’ She said client ironically, as if doubting their existence. As well she might.

‘He’s called Seth Donovan. He’s moved to an old cottage overlooking the sea with his son.’

‘Seth Donovan?’ Bridget jerked as though someone had poked her. ‘The Formula One driver?’ Excitement sharpened her voice. ‘I heard he’d moved to Devon.’

Formula One driver. That’s what he’d been. Quite famous, apparently. He must be, if Bridget had heard of him. ‘That’s him.’

Her cheeks were tinged pink. ‘He’s always been my dream date,’ she said, eyes shining. ‘You know, the one you’d get a free pass with.’ Her glow dimmed a little. ‘Chad’s was Ellen DeGeneres.’

I let that settle for a moment. ‘He seems nice. Seth Donovan, I mean.’

Bridget shrugged aside whatever memory had risen. ‘How on earth did you wangle the job?’

I haven’t. I lifted a shoulder, indicating it had been easy with my powers of persuasion. I could see she was willing to be convinced, but decided not to tell her how I’d actually met Seth. It sounded too much like boasting to mention I’d saved Jack’s life. ‘It’s a nice cottage,’ I said instead. ‘At least, it will be.’

‘A cottage by the sea. How romantic.’ She made a swoony face that nearly made me smile. Bridget wasn’t the swoony type.

‘I can get you a date with him.’ The words shot out before I could stop them, but I remembered his insistence on somehow paying me back for saving Jack. Surely taking my sister out couldn’t hurt, and it might bring back her smile again. Permanently. I knew he’d like her. Most men did; she had that indefinable something that drew them in. Plus, they both had a child, so they instantly had something in common, and it was about time Bridget moved on now Chad had been gone for months, doing goodness knows what in America. As far as I knew, they didn’t speak any more as she’d decided it would be too confusing for Romy.

‘You could get me a date?’ Bridget’s face had knotted into a shape I didn’t recognise. ‘With Seth Donovan?’

‘He’s single, isn’t he?’ Wasn’t he?

‘Well, yes… according to the Daily Mail.’ Her shoulders rose. ‘I looked him up when I heard he was moving here.’

‘Well, there you go.’ I sounded a lot like Mum. ‘I’ll have a word with him, if you like.’

Her expression was a mixture of hope and disbelief. ‘That would be amazing,’ she said. ‘Listen, I’m sorry if I’ve been a bit… you know.’ Her knees suddenly buckled, and Romy poked her curly blonde head through Bridget’s legs and shouted, ‘BISCUITS!’

‘No problem,’ I said. ‘I’ll ask him when I next see him.’ I backed towards the stairs. ‘I’d better just…’

‘Go and change.’ She flapped her hand while trying to unwedge Romy’s head. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

Bridget wasn’t the ‘putting the kettle on’ type. At least, she hadn’t been. Not for me, anyway. For the first time in my life, it seemed I might be able to do something to make my sister happy. Now all I had to do was talk to Seth.