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‘Well, yes. Introduce her to Anna.’ My face twitched involuntarily at this.

‘Christmas, birthdays,’ Caro breathed, a faraway look in her eye, as both of us, I know, had a mental vision of Christmas, which was always at the farm: everyone crowded in the dining room, holly over the pictures, huge turkey, and, despite our differences, very jolly. All the cousins, Mum, Felicity, Caro, Tim, me, Ant, except now, next to Ant – a dumpy, peroxide-blonde girl, her mother too perhaps, a Myra Hindley lookalike, with hard, probing eyes, glinting as they eyed up the silver candlesticks, the crystal glasses, none of it terribly valuable, but worth an awful lot more than a few china kittens that sat in the window of their high-rise in Sheffield. Worth a bit more than the souvenir from Magaluf on the telly. And then the children's faces, confused, appalled at this cuckoo in their nest. Having to explain, nervously, to their friends on Boxing Day, at the usual drinks party at the farm, where all the neighbours congregated, that this was, um, another cousin. Anna's sister.

Caro's face darkened. ‘Over my dead body!’

‘That's what I said,’ I gulped. ‘When Ant told me. That's exactly what I said!’

We gazed at each other, and her eyes shone into mine in a way that they hadn't done for years, a way that reminded me of when we'd had a plan, years ago; a party to crash perhaps, a window that needed climbing into. One particular window sprang to mind, a high one, our most daring of all, at a May Ball. Naturally we hadn't been invited, being only lowly shop assistants, but nevertheless, we'd put on our Monsoon ball gowns, and after ten o'clock, when we knew everyone had eaten and the dancing begun, raced down Cornmarket, skirts lifted, giggling wildly, finding our building. Slingbacks in our teeth, Caro had shoved me up a drainpipe and I'd hauled her after me. On to the roof we'd climbed, jumping across to another, then through a skylight, recced days ago, dropping down into the ladies' loo. A few undergraduates applying their lippy in the mirror had looked up, astonished. ‘Just popped out for a breather,’ smiled Caro, who had all the neck, brushing off her hands. And then we'd danced until dawn. It was that same look, I realized, as we'd planned Operation May Ball in our flat in Summertown, that same steely, determined look, that she had now.

‘My dead body and yours too then,’ she said grimly. ‘They'll have to climb over a couple of stiffs before they gain access to my house. Before they start believing they're one of us!’

Later, when we'd both calmed down a bit, we walked around the garden, arms tightly folded, heads bent, a couple of middle-aged women, closer than we'd been for years, discussing DNA, the fraud squad, getting them arrested, maybe even a court order to stay away.

‘Deported?’ I stopped. Looked at her in astonishment.

‘Well, they're probably not even English, Evie! Probably – I don't know – Nigerian or something!’

I frowned. ‘Wouldn't that make passing as Ant's daughter a bit – you know – difficult? A bit easy to suss?’

‘Well, Poles then. God, we're crawling with them round here, picking strawberries, asparagus, wanting to get rich quick then bugger off back to Prague with their stash, feed their starving families, spread it round the bread queues…’ Caro's grip on foreign affairs was about as firm as mine. ‘Poles on the make, I bet you.’

Tim approached, loping across the lawn towards us.

‘Don't tell him,’ hissed Caro. ‘He'll look on the bright side. Always does.’

It was true, he would. And would probably agree with Ant that she deserved to be heard; deserved to be listened to. He would be generous-spirited, nicer, as men, in my experience, often tend to be. Unlike me and Caro who'd got a sixteen-year-old bound and gagged, and in the back of a cattle truck, bouncing down a dusty track and back across the border. He looked a bit sheepish.

‘Sorry, Evie.’

‘What?’

‘About the horse. I was a bit… you know.’

‘Oh! Oh God, don't be silly, Tim. Couldn't matter less. Anyway, I deserved it. I'm