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Poppy’s voice died in her throat as she heard the front door slam. It was probably just her mum, right? Nipping out for milk?

That was when Poppy saw the pencils lying on her desk. Norah was never without them. If she realised she’d left them behind, wouldn’t she...

Poppy ran downstairs to find her mother folding laundry. ‘Did Norah just come in?’ she asked, trying to sound casual.

‘I sent her up to you. Didn’t you see her? She was coming to your bedroom for her art stuff.’

The colour drained from Poppy’s face.

Norah had heard the song and legged it. She was probably completely freaked out, maybe even revolted. It wasn’t supposed to go this way. It wasn’t supposed to be now, and it might not have been ever. Poppy had no real plans to tell her. And certainly not via song.

‘What’s up?’ her mother asked.

‘Nothing.’

Her mother rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, yes, because your face always looks green. What’swrong?’ she demanded, putting down a jumper on the pile.

It had never crossed Poppy’s mind to discuss this with her mother, but apparently, her face was an open book. And her brain wasn’t functioning enough to make something up. So she told half the truth.

‘I think she heard something.’

‘Who, Norah? Heard what? What are you talking about?’ her mum asked, baffled.

‘She heard a song I wrote.’

Her mother frowned, trying to puzzle out the problem. ‘And you didn’t want anyone to hear it yet, is that it?’

‘Ummm...’

‘Was it personal?’ her mother asked, getting closer to the truth. This was her mother all over. Part bloodhound.

‘Very,’ Poppy said.

‘What was it about? You haven’t played me this one yet.’

Poppy cleared her throat. ‘I wasn’t ready.’

‘You’ve never minded before,’ her mother said, her brow deepening. She was getting there.

‘I wrote a love song,’ Poppy admitted.

‘For someone specific?’ her mother pressed.

Poppy nodded.

‘Oh.Oh.’

There it was. But what would she think about it?

Her mother’s face cracked into a big grin. ‘Oh, sweetheart!’ she said, laughing. ‘Oh god. You must bedying!’

‘Mum!’ Poppy exclaimed, incensed.

‘I’d have never sent her up if I’d known, kiddo. I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ Poppy said miserably.

But it was sort of nice to commiserate with her mum. She didn’t seem very surprised by the object of her love song either, and that was a comfort, too.