It is overwhelming. It is a sign.

Half an hour later, the redhead sits up. Both her face and shoulders are now a painful shade of orangey-pink. Red Mum, I think with a smile.

I turn back to Strawberry. She is looking more and more like Aurelia. If I squint my eyes in just the right way, I can almost believe it is her. She’s beautiful, astonishing, and no one is taking a blind bit of notice. Hundreds of special little moments—smiles and frowns and exclamations—are being thrown into the air like bridal bouquets, and I am the only one catching them. Part of me wants to shout at Red Mum. “Put down your drink, woman! Look at what you’re missing!” But I don’t. I like having Strawberry all to myself.

We play a game of peekaboo together. She gives me gifts of pebbles. I find some old receipts in the back of my purse and she draws pictures on them, passing them to me like love letters. I watch as Red Mum knocks back coffee like shots of tequila, only turning once or twice to check on her daughter.

* * *

By the time lunchtime rolls around, Red Mum is buzzing. She taps her fing

ers, jiggles her feet, and presses her phone to her ear, making call after unsuccessful call. Muttering under her breath, she glares at the water, then seems to come to a decision. She throws the phone down on her lounger and begins hurling her belongings back into her beach bag, barking in French at her children and slapping frizzy strands of ginger hair out of her eyes.

One by one, four sullen children slouch in from the waves.

I don’t move, but inside I’m panicking. I look around for Strawberry but can’t see her. I don’t want her to leave.

Red Mum’s flapping becomes even more frantic. Throwing her bag over her shoulder, she stalks off toward the exit with her phone to her ear. She yells a few more harsh-sounding words over her shoulder, but they’re lost on Strawberry’s wired, overexcited siblings. They barge past sunbathers and waiters, squawking and squabbling and trying to trip each other up.

I still can’t see Strawberry. I sit up. Where is she? And then I hear a giggle and something prods me from underneath. I slide off my lounger and get down on my hands and knees. She’s curled up in a ball, a mischievous look on her gorgeous face. “Hey, monkey,” I whisper. “You’d better go. They’re leaving without you.”

Strawberry puts a finger to her lips: Sssshh.

“Come on,” I say gently. I look from the little girl to her swiftly departing mother and back again. I know I should call out—Hey! Stop! You’ve forgotten something!—but my mouth just won’t form the words.

“Come on,” I say again to Strawberry, wiping tears from my eyes. I stretch out my hand, but Strawberry shakes her head. Again, she holds her finger to her lips. Sssshhh.

And this time I copy her, like a mirror image.

A cold gust of wind ruffles my hair. Surprised, I glance up at the rippling ceiling of blue-striped fabric and see, through the gaps, a billowing mass of purple cloud. Where has that come from? All around me, other people are staring up at the sky in wonder.

Strawberry crawls out from underneath the lounger.

The wind charges again, stronger this time. A few towels are blown onto the ground. In the restaurant area, menus flip off tables and vault away over the deck.

There’s a pause and then, like an orchestra, the storm really begins to play. The ocean bulges and delivers an enormous white wave onto the sand, giving the cue for another neat roll of thunder. Then the rain joins in, tapping out a soft introductory rhythm that quickly gets louder and more forceful until fat drops of water are striking a clattering percussion on every available surface.

Strawberry lets out a wail and holds out her arms.

The rain starts to gush in streams off the sides of the umbrellas. People who just moments ago had been lying corpse-like on their loungers are now jumping to their feet and throwing towels over their heads. They hop back through the rows of white furniture, tripping over themselves to get under the roof of the restaurant.

A woman in front of me bundles up her little boy in a towel, covering him from head to toe. She picks him up and hurries away, his little face just visible underneath a fluffy hood. A family rushes past, carrying similarly wrapped children. One of them is wailing like a car alarm. The father catches my eye and flashes me a parent-to-parent grin. Life with kids, hey?

The drumming of the rain becomes a sharp hammer of hard objects as lumps of ice fall from the sky. Strawberry cries out as one strikes her on the shoulder. “Maman!” she cries.

I don’t even think. I pick her up and hold her tight. “It’s okay, little one,” I say, pulling her close. “I’ll take care of you.”

Thunder cracks overhead.

I’ll take care of you …

I reach down, grab my towel, and throw it over Strawberry’s head, copying the woman with the little boy.

I’ll take care of you …

Strawberry nestles her face against my shoulder … and then I’m holding her again, my baby girl, my Aurelia, and I’m running to the car leaving birthday cake and gifts behind, and then I’m in the hospital room, powerless and afraid, reliving the searing, brutal moment her eyes cloud over with fear, the moment she loses hope, the moment she realizes that her mummy can’t save her. I see her go limp in the hands of the doctors just as years earlier my own mother had gone limp in my arms. I see her eyes roll back in her head and her skin set like concrete, and I know I have failed her.

Well, I won’t fail again.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” I say, as the delicate scent of Aurelia’s skin fills my nose. “Everything’s going to be fine. Mummy’s here.”

I rush toward the restaurant, my shoulders hunched against the wind. But there’s no room; all the space in the restaurant area is taken up by wet, chattering tourists. I try to nudge my way in but no one will move. I run to the stairs.

A purple umbrella lies discarded against the bottom step, and I snatch it off the ground. Shifting Aurelia over onto one hip, I push it open and brace it against the wind.

I rush up and onto the promenade. Lifting the umbrella a little, I glimpse the curb. The hail has stopped and the rain is slowing, but water still churns in the gutters like a river. I check for headlights and flinch as a bright flash of lightning illuminates the road.

Suddenly, there is a terrifying bang: a skull-splitting crack that takes my breath away.

I stagger backward as the crack turns into a roar, and then the whole world burns with a fierce orange light. Aurelia screams, and for one confusing moment I’m sure that a chasm is opening under my feet. I hear loud voices and a ripping, wrenching sound; the ground is shaking—but it does not split and we do not fall. Instead, there’s a rush of wind and a strange assault of hot and cold objects against my skin. There are embers everywhere, red-hot sparks shooting and hissing their complaint as they meet the wet concrete.

Turning, I see a raging bonfire just meters from where I stand; a palm tree has been struck by lightning, its split trunk stretching the full width of the road, its leaves crackling with flame. Broken, burning branches litter the ground. I gaze at the fire as it fights with the rain, realizing only too late that Aurelia is transfixed, too, her mouth stretched wide, her face flecked with ash. She is terrified out of her mind.

A voice to my left calls out in English, “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

I wheel around to find my savior, but a sudden gust of wind blows smoke and ash right in my face and down my throat. I fling the umbrella in front of me, turning it into a shield.

For a moment I am blind. Crying out for the help that no longer seems to be there, I lurch away, stumbling as my foot slips off the curb. The road … I’m nearly there. I can do this.

I tighten my grip around my baby’s trembling body and press on, losing a sandal in the torrent. “Not far to go now, bubba, hang in there!” I yell as I struggle to the other side. I manage to turn right and keep going until I reach a familiar corner, and then I am on a side street, and then I am next to a car, and it’s my car, the rented Porsche.

Fleetingly, I’m struck by a nagging feeling that I’m supposed to do something or go somewhere, but I can’t remember what it is and the rain is still coming down, and Aurelia is still screaming, and she’s so heavy, she’s such a big girl now, and she’s soaking, I have to get her inside or she’ll get sick.…

Still keeping hold of both Aurelia and the umbrella, I wriggle the straps of my sodden beach bag off my shoulder and dig for the keys. I unlock the car, open the back door—and the unwanted child seat greets me like an old friend.

Releasing the umbrella into the wind, I tug the wet towel off my sobbing daughter and hustle her into the seat, taking care to strap her in properly. I toss my bag into the foot well and slam Aurelia’s door, leaping around to the other side where I open my own door and throw myself inside.