Page 70 of High Season

Bad twin.

“Because,” she says. “There’s something wrong with me.”

The man tilts his head to one side, focused now.

Tamara leans in closer.

“Can you keep a secret?”

TWENTY-TWO

2024

The car’s air conditioning starts to give up somewhere close to Avignon, the vents beginning to splutter in and out, blasting them all with intermittent puffs of cool air. By the time they see signs for Marseille, it has given out entirely, and they sit, marinated in their own sweat, the windows fully rolled down.

“This is the last time we’re doing the tunnel over,” says Hannah’s husband, Eric, hitting his hand against the air vent for the eleventh time. “Next time, we’ll fly.”

Hannah doesn’t answer, because it would be the fiftieth time they’ve had this debate since becoming parents, Eric lamenting the horror of the eighteen-hour trip, Hannah pointing out the impossibility of wrestling all three children and the countless clothes and toys and pushchairs that they need for four weeks in France onto a flight.

“My dad will take a look at it when we arrive,” she says. “I’m sure it’s something he’ll be able to sort.”

Her words are supposed to be soothing, but Eric sighs and taps against the vent slightly more aggressively.

“That’s the other thing,” he says. “Your dad already thinks I’m such a shirt. He’ll love the fact I know nothing about cars. I won’t hear the end of it.”

“Oh, stop it,” says Hannah. “My dad loves you. You know he does.”

“Mum.”

A small foot digs into the back of Hannah’s seat.

“Tell Mason it’s my turn with the iPad.”

“It’s not your turn with the iPad. You had it for ages.”

“You’vehad it for ages. You’re not even using it.”

“You only use it to play stupid baby games.”

“You’re the stupid baby.”

“You’re a stupid shithead.”

“Mason.” Hannah’s voice makes everyone jump. “Apologize to your brother right now.”

Just then Isla, strapped into her booster seat, decides it’s the perfect time to start wailing.

“Apologize for what?”

“For calling your brother a shithead.”

“Mum!”

“Mum, you just said shithead.”

“No, I didn’t.” Hannah is twisting round to ply Isla with yet another strawberry lollipop. The sugar high is going to be unbearable to deal with, but she can’t stand the screaming. Not now, not at these temperatures. “I said an s-head. I didn’t actually say the word—”

“Look, boys, I can see the sea!” Eric roars, cutting Hannah off before she can finish.