up the frame. Soon a stranger would paint all over their milestones.
Disbelief glowered in Sarah’s mother’s eyes. ‘Mulligatawny soup?’
‘Think that came in last year’s Harvest Festival basket.’
‘Eat, pack or food bank?’
‘Mum, we only received the offer two days ago. What even is Mulligatawny?’ Sarah rinsed her cup under the tap and looked out on to the back garden. More than a decade of forgotten junk still needed clearing from Patrick’s long-abandoned summerhouse. The rotting shed had been off limits for a long time now; even Jon avoided it, despite it being the only space big enough to house his treadmill. It had been a small mercy the children had been in there and not inside the main house when Elodie had been hurt. A place they could close the door on.
‘Hello? Earth to Sarah?’
‘Sorry. You were saying?’
Milo was growing up. His voice this morning had been deep and confident, just like Karl’s. He’d still avoided eye contact though, the way Juliette had trained him.
‘I said, I believe it’s similar to a curried soup.’
‘What is?’
‘Mulligatawny!’
‘Oh. Mulligatawny,’ Sarah repeated absently. ‘Sounds like an Irish cove . . . or rare owl maybe . . .’
Sarah’s mother glared over her reading glasses. ‘Are you on drugs, darling? I’ve been reading about M-Cat in the Mail. Your father thinks M-Cat and internet porn are going to be the downfall of at least the next two generations.’
Sarah was on drugs, as it happened. Just the one secret pill, every day, religiously.
‘Goodness, that was a rather hefty sigh, darling. And there I was thinking that moving to a palatial new home overlooking the ocean was something to be upbeat about.’
‘Tea, Mum?’
‘Yes please. It is, though, isn’t it, darling?’
‘Is what?’
‘Something to be upbeat about?’
‘Of course. Where’s your cup?’
‘By the teapot. Your father’s always saying you’d both be better off putting your cash into property. Savings just aren’t worth the bother since interest rates died.’
‘Must be right, then. If Dad says so. Chamomile or regular?’
‘Regular is fine.’
She reached for the pot of teabags. Her mum’s hand appeared over hers. ‘Everyone deserves a happy ending, darling. Sometimes I wonder if you don’t believe you’re about due yours.’
‘You worry too much, Mum.’
‘Then what’s the matter, darling? And don’t say nothing
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