I meet Mary’s eyes, and I can see her taking the measure of me. At last she nods.

‘Very well. I’ll give you access to all the files. You’ll have to look at them here, in the office, but I can give you a room to sit in.’

‘Thank you.’ I match her businesslike tone.

‘Sylvie, darling.’ Mummy makes an anguished face. ‘I really wouldn’t. You really don’t need to know—’

‘I do!’ I cut her off furiously. ‘I’ve been living in a bubble. Well, now I’m stepping out of it. I don’t need protecting. I don’t need shielding. “Protect Sylvie” is over.’ I shoot a savage look around the room. ‘Over.’

I sit alone, reading and reading. My eyes blur over. My head starts to hurt. An assistant brings me three more cups of tea, but they all sit going cold, undrunk, because I’m too wrapped up in what I’m seeing; what I’m understanding. My head is a whirl. How can all this have been happening and I had no idea? What kind of blind, oblivious moron have I been?

Joss Burton used to go on holiday to Los Bosques Antiguos. That’s where she apparently met Daddy. None of this is in doubt. Her family genuinely did have a house there, very close to ours. Her parents did socialize with Mummy and Daddy. I don’t remember them, but then again, I was only three or four at the time.

Then there’s all the stuff she alleges: stuff about Daddy giving her presents, plying her with cocktails, leading her into the woods … and I couldn’t bring myself to read that properly. Just the idea of it made me feel ill. I skimmed just a few pages, taking in phrases here and there, and felt even more sickened. My father? With a naïve, inexperienced teenage girl, who’d never even …

Mary Smith-Sullivan was right. It’s not particularly easy reading.

So I hastened on to the emails, the present-day correspondence, the actual case. There are hundreds of emails in the files. Thousands, even. Daddy to Dan, Dan back to Daddy, Roderick to both of them, Dan to Mary, Mary back to Dan … And the more I read, the more shocked I am. Daddy’s emails are so abrupt. Demanding. Entitled. Dan is resolutely polite, resolutely charming, but Daddy … Daddy pushes him around. He expects Dan to drop everything. He swears at him when things go wrong. He’s a bully.

I can’t believe I’m having these thoughts about my father. My charming, twinkly father a bully? I mean, yes, he sometimes lost it with his staff … but never with his family.

Surely?

I keep reading, hoping desperately to discover the email where he’s appreciative. Where he thanks Dan for all his efforts. Where he gushes. He was a charming person. Where’s the charm here?

After 258 emails, I haven’t yet found it and my stomach is heavy. Everything makes horrible sense. This is why Dan’s relationship with Daddy deteriorated. Because Daddy dragged him into his problems and made them Dan’s and treated him like mud.

No wonder Dan talked about an ‘ongoing nightmare’. Daddy was the nightmare.

At last I raise my head, my cheeks flaming. I’m churned up. I want to wade in. I want to confront Daddy. I want to have it out. Phrases are flying around my head: How could you? Apologize! You can’t speak to Dan like that! That’s my husband!

But Daddy’s dead. He’s dead. It’s too late. I can’t confront him, I can’t talk to him, I can’t demand why he behaved like that, or have it out, or make it right; it’s all too late, too late.

And guilt is rising in me, making my face still warmer. Because I didn’t help Dan, did I? All along, I blanked out Daddy’s flaws, I glorified him, I made it impossible for Dan ever to speak the truth. And that was the chasm.

‘Are you OK?’

I jump, shocked, at Mary’s voice, and abruptly realize I’m rocking back and forth in my chair, my jaw jutting out as though for a fight.

‘Fine!’ I hastily sit upright. ‘Fine. It’s … quite heavy stuff.’

‘Yes.’ She gives me a sympathetic look. ‘Probably a bit much to try to digest it all.’

‘I need to go, anyway.’ I glance at my watch. ‘School pick-up time.’

‘Ah.’ She nods. ‘Well, come back any time you’d like. Ask me anything you’d like to know.’

‘Have you heard from Dan?’ The question spills out before I can stop it.

‘No.’ She gives me a neutral look. ‘I’m sure he’s doing everything he can.’

I have about ten thousand questions I want to bombard her with, but as we walk to the lifts, two are circling high above the rest.

‘My father,’ I say as I press the lift button.

‘Yes?’

‘Did he … Is it … You don’t think …’ I can’t say it out loud. But Mary understands exactly.

‘Your father always maintained that Jocelyn Burton has a fertile imagination and the affair was entirely fictitious,’ she says. ‘Her full account is all there in the files for you to read. Thousands of words. Very descriptive. However, you may feel that it’s not helpful for you.’

‘Right,’ I say. ‘Well … maybe.’ I watch the lift indicator changing: 26 – 25 – 24 – and then draw breath. ‘My father,’ I say again.

‘Yes?’

I bite my lip. I don’t know what I want to ask, exactly. I try again. ‘I’ve been reading the emails between Dan and my father. And …’

‘Yes.’ Mary meets my eye and I have a feeling that, again, she knows exactly what I’m driving at. ‘Dan is very patient. Very smart. I hope your father knew how much he did for him.’

‘But he didn’t though, did he?’ I say bluntly. ‘I’ve seen it in those emails. Daddy was awful to him. I can’t believe Dan stuck it out.’ Tears suddenly spring to my eyes as I think of Dan, uncomplainingly dealing with Daddy’s charmless missives. Never telling me a word. ‘I mean, why would he? Why would he?’

‘Oh, Sylvie.’ Mary shakes her head with an odd little laugh. ‘If you don’t know—’ She breaks off, surveying me with such a wry gaze I almost feel uncomfortable. ‘You know, I’ve been intrigued to meet you, all this time. To meet Dan’s Sylvie.’

‘Dan’s Sylvie?’ A painful laugh rises through me. ‘I don’t feel like Dan’s Sylvie right now. If I were him I would have left me ages ago.’

The doors open, and as I get in, Mary holds out her hand. ‘Very nice to meet you at last, Sylvie,’ she says. ‘Please don’t worry about this second book. I’m sure it will all be resolved. And if there’s any more information I can give you about Joss … or Lynn …’

‘What?’ I stare at her, puzzled. ‘What do you mean, Lynn?’

‘Oh, sorry. I know it’s confusing.’ Mary raises her eyes ruefully. ‘Jocelyn is her full name, but she was known as Lynn as a teenager. For legal purposes, obviously, we—’

‘Wait.’ My hand jams the Hold button before I’m even aware I’m reacting. ‘Lynn? Are you telling me … she was called Lynn?’

‘Well, we generally refer to her as Joss, obviously.’ Mary seems puzzled by my reaction. ‘But she was Lynn then. I thought you might remember her, in fact. In her account, she certainly mentions you. She used to play with you. Sing songs with you. “Kumbaya”, that kind of thing.’ Mary’s face changes. ‘Sylvie? Are you all right?’

I’ve been living inside a bubble inside a bubble. I feel surreal. As I stride along Lower Sloane Street, the same phrase keeps running through my head: What’s real? What’s real?

When I finally left the Avory Milton offices, I tried Dan’s phone about five times. But he wasn’t picking up, or didn’t have signal, or something. So at last I left a desperate, frantic voicemail: ‘Dan, I’ve just found out, I can’t believe it, I had no idea, I’m so sorry, I got it all wrong. Dan, we need to talk. Dan, please ring me, I’m so, so sorry …’ and kept on in that vein until the beep went.

Now I’m heading to Mummy’s flat. I’m in a bit of a state and should probably pause for a calming drink of something – but I’m not going to. I have to see her. I have to have this out. I’ve already phoned up the school and put the girls into after-school club. (They’re pretty good about last-minute phone calls from frazzled London working parents.)

I let myself into Mummy’s flat with my latchkey, stalk into the drawing room with no greeting, and say in unforgiving tones, ‘You lied.’

Mummy jumps and looks round from where she was sitting, staring into space, a cushion clutched to her chest. She seems suddenly small and vulnerable against the vast expanse of the sofa, but I thrust that thought from my mind.

‘Lynn,’ I say, my eyes searing into hers. ‘Lynn, Mummy. Lynn.’

To her credit, she doesn’t say, ‘What do you mean, Lynn?’ She gazes past me as though she’s looking at a ghost, her face slowly creasing up in anxiety.

‘Lynn!’ I practically yell. ‘You told me she was imaginary! You screwed me up! She was real! She was real!’

‘Oh, darling.’ Mummy’s hand nervously crushes the fabric of her jacket.

‘Why would you do that?’ My voice is perilously close to a wail, a childlike wail. ‘Why would you make me feel so terrible? You wouldn’t let me talk about her, you made me feel so guilty … and all the time you knew she was real! It’s sick! It’s messed up!’

As I’m talking, an image flashes into my head of Tessa and Anna. My gorgeous girls with their precious thoughts and dreams and ideas. The idea of messing with them, altering them, making them feel bad about anything … is just anathema.

Mummy isn’t answering. I stalk round to the front of the sofa so that I’m facing her, breathing hard. ‘Why? Why?’

‘You were so small,’ says Mummy at last.

‘Small? What’s that got to do with it?’

‘We thought it would make things simpler.’

‘Why simpler?’ I stare at her. ‘What do you mean, simpler?’

‘Because we had to leave so hurriedly. Because …’

‘Why did we have to leave so hurriedly?’

‘Because that girl was making … accusations!’ Mummy’s voice is suddenly raw and harsh and her face takes on the ugliest expression I’ve ever seen, a kind of contorted disgust which chills me to my heart.