‘I’ll stop calling you Aurora when you stop calling me Mother.’

Belle stepped in. ‘I think it’s got real potential, Mum – like those places on the home programmes. Let’s go and look at the kitchen.’

Rory put an arm around her daughter’s shoulders as they walked. It still came as a surprise to her that they were almost the same height. With Belle’s long, dark ponytail and fresh face it was easy to pretend that she was still a little girl. Thank goodness Rory had been spared the rumoured teenage angst and screaming matches. Belle was sixteen now. They were home and dry.

The kitchen was a bit of a shock, even to Rory, who’d seen it before. It was large – with plenty of room for the island Rory coveted – but the cupboard doors were more grime than pine, and two doors were missing completely. There was a whiff of something greasy and the floor was sticky. Rory didn’t want to know why.

She took her arm from around Belle’s shoulders and thrust her fingers into her own short, dark hair, massaging her scalp. She had to be sensible. It wasn’t only her and her bloody-minded will of iron who would be living in this mess. Belle had always been more dolls and dresses than hammers and hard hats. Rory closed her eyes. Think with your head. Your heart can’t be trusted. Life is not a fairy tale.

Rory heard the squelch of Sheila’s shoes enter the room. She opened one eye and looked at her mother. Sheila looked at Belle. Belle looked at Rory.

Then they all started to laugh.

‘Well, if this room doesn’t put you off, nothing will. I give in.’ Sheila wiped her eyes. ‘I know better than to try and change your mind.’

Rory kissed her mother’s cheek. ‘I can still retract my offer if I do have second thoughts. Let’s go back into the sitting room; this smell is making me queasy.’

Belle went first and sat on the deep windowsill in the big bay window. ‘We could put a window seat in here, Mum. Then we could read our books and eat apples like Jo in Little Women.’

Her daughter knew exactly how to play her.

Rory joined her at the window. ‘Do you think you could cope with all the chaos whilst we are doing it up, though? We’re going to have to do most of the work ourselves, including all the boring prep work. Stripping wallpaper, ripping up the carpets, cleaning everywhere. It’ll take a while.’

Sheila turned an incredulous gaze on Rory. ‘Surely you wouldn’t move in while it is like this?’ She swept an arm around the room: the flaking plaster, the tatty carpet and the door which hadn’t seen a paintbrush since ‘Shaky Steve’ was in the charts.

‘We’d have to, Mum.