"You were clearly her favourite," Joan said without any preface, her face buried in Luke Slattery"s Mrs M.
"I was her niece," Heather said, making her way to the dining table with her bowl.
"Sleep well?"
"Thank you, Dad. I did."
Heather took up her usual chair facing the window that looked out over the back garden. The weather was squally, the bare branches of the trees swaying stiffly. She made a mental note to put her umbrella in her bag.
"You may just as well have been her daughter," Joan said, decapitating her boiled egg with a rigorous swipe of her knife.
"That"s so unkind," Heather said, wishing to eat in peace, wishing she could avoid her mother"s ire.
Joan inhaled as if to say more, when William threw her a stern look.
"There"s no need to be quite so, blunt," he said.
Joan
