On the way back to Querencia, just before the point at which she would lose her signal again, Emily pulled over and reached into her bag for her phone. The clamor of the market had all but drowned out her homesickness, but a trace remained, niggling at her like a fingerprint on a windowpane.

When Juliet answered, the familiarity of her voice made Emily feel unexpectedly teary. “Emily? Is that you?”

“Yes, it’s me. Hello.”

“Oh my goodness, where are you?” Her voice was high and edgy.

“I’m in France. My new job, remember?”

“What new job? And hang on—France?”

Emily rolled her eyes. Typical. They never listened.

“I’ve been calling and calling,” Juliet said, “but your phone is always off. Your father and I have been worried sick, we thought something had happened to you.”

“What are you talking about?” Emily’s smile wavered a little. “I … I told you I would be out of contact for a little while.”

“Did you? I don’t remember that! When did you call? Did you speak to Peter? It can’t have been me; I would’ve remembered a conversation about moving to France.”

“I haven’t moved here, not exactly. I’m just—”

“Emily, it’s been almost six weeks since you were last in touch. We had no idea where you were; anything could’ve happened to you. We nearly phoned the police. Are you picking up your emails?”

“No, I—look, there’s no need to worry, I’m fine. This place is amazing, it—”

“No need to worry? Darling, we’ve been going out of our minds! And where is ‘this place’?”

“I told you, in bloody France!”

“You didn’t tell us.”

“I did! I’m working for a family. At their house. I told you all about it.”

“You didn’t.”

Emily hesitated. She had told them. She remembered calling the morning of her first meeting with Scott.

Oh, no, wait … She’d called, but it had gone to voicemail, so she’d decided to try again later rather than leave a message. Which she definitely had done … hadn’t she?

Oh, shit the bed. Was it possible she had flown off to France without telling her parents?

“Who is this family, anyway?” Juliet said.

Emily decided to plant herself firmly in denial. She’d told her parents exactly where she was going and what she was doing; they just hadn’t listened to her, as usual. She adopted a faux-patient tone, as if she was explaining something to a small child. “They’re a perfectly nice British family with a house in France. I worked for the guy in London. He’s cool.”

“Cool? Who is this man, Emily? I’m really not comfortable with this.”

“For god’s sake, I’m fine. Everything’s great. You can relax.”

“Oh, I can relax, can I? My daughter disappears off the face of the planet after telling me she’s in trouble, and I can relax?”

In the background, Emily could hear her father jumping around, butting in and asking questions. “Yes, yes, it’s Emily,” Juliet was saying. “Shh, Peter, for god’s sake, I can’t hear her. Emily, your father wants to know what exactly you’re doing at this house? What is this job?”

Emily took a deep breath. “Well, I’m doing a lot of things,” she said, evenly. “Scott, that’s the guy from London, he hired me to help his wife look after the place and—”

“Are you a cleaner? Peter, she’s a cleaner.”

“I’m not a cleaner.”

“Well, what are you then?”

“I’m sort of a”—Emily cast around for a word that described what she was doing for the Denny family: Personal shopper? Painter/decorator? Companion?—“a live-in personal assistant.”

“A what? What does that even mean? And did you say you’re living with these people? Listen, Emily, I think you should come home. Right now. I mean it; your father and I are very worried about you. We think you might be—what’s that word that Jenny Sanderson used? Peter, what’s that word? Free-falling.”

“Calm down,” said Emily. “I’m not free-falling, I’m actually really happy. I like this job and I’m good at it.”

“Good at what exactly?”

Emily flinched at the derision in Juliet’s voice. Clearly her mother thought she’d run off to join a polygamist cult or something.

“Whatever you’re doing over there with these people, darling, I can tell you now it won’t help you build a career. I appreciate that you might need a little holiday but come on.”

“It’s not a holiday, I—”

There was a muffled interjection in the background and Juliet tutted. “Please, Peter, be quiet, I’m talking. Hang on, Emily, let me deal with your father.”

There was a rustle as they played tug-of-war with the phone. Then there was a crackle, and Peter was in her ear, his deep Derbyshire accent vibrating through her skull. “Listen to me, Emily. Come home. Your mother is making herself ill with worry.”

“Well, that’s her own fault.”

“Look, love, I don’t mind telling you that we were all hoping you might give up that acting lark.” Emily covered her face with her free hand. He was warming up to one of his lectures. “It wasn’t getting you anywhere; we all knew that. But we sort of hoped that you might move on to bigger and better things.”

“But—”

“Listen, you’re a bright girl. You could get a good job, make yourself some money, and set yourself up. But you keep on mucking around. You’re not eighteen anymore, kid. It’s time to grow up.”

“This is a good job! That’s what I’m trying to tell you, but you won’t listen.”

“No, Emily, it’s you who won’t listen. You haven’t listened for years now and look where it’s got you.”

“Yes,” Emily yelled. “Look where it’s got me. Happy and relaxed and far away from you people!”

She hung up and smacked the heel of her hand on the steering wheel. Every single time. Just when she managed to get back on her feet they always found a whole new way to knock her back down again. She threw the phone onto the passenger seat.

Three minutes later, she picked it back up again. There was only one person she wanted to speak to right now, only one person who would understand. She opened her messages and texted Scott.

* * *

Back at Querencia, Emily hauled the groceries from the car and placed them in the guesthouse kitchen. She separated out the items that Nina had requested specifically for her and Aurelia, and placed them in a large picnic hamper. She carried it over to the family house, taking the path around the side and placing it on the patio table as usual. She was about to walk away when she heard the slide of bifold doors.

“Em? You okay?”

She turned to see Nina emerging from the gym in shorts and a cropped sports top, a towel in one hand and a water bottle in the other, and the sight of her tripped a switch in Emily. She felt her insides crack and slide away like an ice shelf into the ocean. Mortified, she dropped her head and covered her face.

“Oh, honey, what happened?” Nina’s hand on her shoulder made it worse somehow, and a small sob shot out of Emily’s throat.

Embarrassed, she shook her head and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “Nothing, sorry. I just talked to my parents.” She sniffed. “But it’s fine. I’m fine.”

Nina opened her mouth to say something but then seemed to change her mind.

Behind them, the kitchen door opened and Aurelia’s pale face appeared. “It’s okay, Strawberry,” Nina said. “Go on back to your book and I’ll be with you in a few minutes, okay?”

Aurelia pouted but didn’t argue. She disappeared and the door clicked shut.

Nina wiped her face with the towel, then steered Emily gently over to a sunny patch of grass next to the vegetable garden. “Sit,” she said, lowering herself into a cross-legged position. She patted the ground beside her.

Emily obeyed and found herself talking, not just about the phone call but other things, too. Juliet’s special gift for stonewalling. The puzzled, almost fearful expression she wore whenever Emily opened her mouth. The way Peter never quite looked her in the eye, and the disappointment that rose off him like heat from a car hood. She talked about her long-held belief that there was something wrong with her, that her life didn’t have a purpose or even a point. She admitted that she often felt furious for no apparent reason, a feeling over which she had no control.

Nina said nothing, just listened.

When Emily was done, a blanket of shame fell over her. She fell silent, wishing she’d kept her mouth shut, willing the ground to swallow her up.

“Okay, here’s what I think,” Nina said at last, stretching her long legs out in front of her. “You, Emily Proudman, are a beautiful, wonderful, creative, curious human. You’re warm and generous and a joy to be around. You’re also very intelligent. But you see yourself as a victim.”

Emily reached out and picked a daisy from the grass.

“You’re looking for someone to blame for your unhappiness—your parents, all those casting directors, anyone. But here’s the thing: at this point in your life, everything you surround yourself with is there because you chose it to be.”