‘The house looks … nice. Different,’ I said.

‘Yes. Well, Steven lost a lot of his furniture in the divorce. So we had to change the look a bit.’ She reached for the tea caddy. ‘He lost things that had been in his family for generations. Of course, she took everything she could.’

She flashed me a look, as if assessing whether I could be considered an ally.

‘I haven’t spoken to Mrs … Camilla since Will …’ I said, feeling oddly disloyal.

‘So. Steven said this girl just turned up on your doorstep.’ Her smile was small and fixed.

‘Yes. It was a surprise. But I’ve met Lily’s mother, and she … well, she was obviously close to Will for some time.’

Della put her hand to the small of her back, then turned back to the kettle. Mum had said she headed a small solicitors’ practice in the next town. You’ve got to wonder about a woman who hasn’t been married by thirty, she had said sniffily, and then, after a quick look in my direction, Forty. I meant forty.

‘What do you think she wants?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘What do you think she wants? The girl?’

I could hear Lily in the hall, asking questions, childish and interested, and felt oddly protective. ‘I don’t think she wants anything. She just discovered she had a father she hadn’t known about and wants to get to know his family. Her family.’

Della warmed and emptied the teapot, measured out the tea-leaves (loose, I noted, just as Mrs Traynor would have had). She poured the boiling water slowly, careful not to splash herself. ‘I have loved Steven for a very long time. He – he – has had a very hard time this last year or so. It would be …’ she didn’t look at me as she spoke ‘… very difficult for him if Lily were to complicate his life at this point.’

‘I don’t think Lily wants to complicate either of your lives,’ I said carefully. ‘But I do think she has a right to know her own grandfather.’

‘Of course,’ she said smoothly, that automatic smile in place. I realized, in that instant, that I had failed some internal test, and also that I didn’t care. And then, with a final murmured check of the tray, Della picked it up and, accepting my offer to bring the cake and the teapot, carried it through to the drawing room.

‘And how are you, Louisa?’

Mr Traynor leaned back in his easy chair, a broad smile breaking his saggy features. He had talked to Lily almost constantly throughout tea, asking questions about her mother, where she lived, what she was studying (she didn’t tell him about the problems at school), whether she preferred fruit cake or chocolate (‘Chocolate? Me too!’) or ginger (no), and cricket (not really – ‘Well, we’ll have to do something about that!’). He seemed reassured by her, by her likeness to his son. At that point, he probably wouldn’t have cared if she had announced that her mother was a Brazilian lap-dancer.

I watched him sneaking looks at Lily, when she was talking, studying her in profile, as if perhaps he could see Will there too. Other times I caught a flicker of melancholy in his expression. I suspected that he was thinking what I had thought: this new grief that his son would never know her. Then he would almost visibly pull himself together, forcing himself a little more upright, a ready smile back upon his face.

He had walked her around the grounds for half an hour, exclaiming when they returned that Lily had found her way out of the maze ‘on your first go! It must be a genetic thing.’ Lily had smiled as broadly if she had won a prize.

‘And, Louisa? What is happening in your life?’

‘I’m fine, thank you.’

‘Are you still working as a … carer?’

‘No. I – I went travelling for a bit, and now I’m working at an airport.’

‘Oh! Good! British Airways, I hope?’

I felt my cheeks colour.

‘Management, is it?’

‘I work in a bar. At the airport.’

He hesitated, just a fraction of a second, and nodded firmly. ‘People always need bars. Especially at airports. I always have a double whisky before I get on a plane, don’t I, darling?’

‘Yes, you do,’ replied Della.

‘And I suppose it must be rather interesting watching everyone fly off every day. Exciting.’

‘I have other things in the pipeline.’

‘Of course you do. Good. Good …’

There was a short silence.

‘When is the baby due?’ I said, to shift everybody’s attention away from me.

‘Next month,’ said Della, her hands resting on the swell of her belly. ‘It’s a girl.’

‘How lovely. What are you going to call her?’

They exchanged the glances that parents-to-be do when they have chosen a name but don’t want to tell anyone.

‘Oh … we don’t know.’

‘Feels most odd. To be a father again, at my age. Can’t quite imagine it. You know, changing nappies, that sort of thing.’ He glanced at Della, then added reassuringly, ‘It’s marvellous, though. I’m a very lucky man. We’re both very lucky, aren’t we, Della?’

She smiled at him.

‘I’m sure,’ I said. ‘How’s Georgina?’