The Turning Point: A gripping emotional page-turner with a breathtaking twist

‘What’s her name?’

‘I don’t know,’ Sam said, as if it was preposterous.

‘What’s Dom’s surname?’

‘Massey.’

‘I’ll give Mrs Massey a ring, then.’

‘Unless she’s a single mum with a different surname,’ said Annabel. ‘Like you.’

But Mrs Massey told Frankie to call her Sarah and assured her it would be a pleasure for Sam to stay.

‘Maybe Dom would like to come over to ours one day,’ Frankie said to Sam.

‘Cool,’ said Sam, settling down on the couch. ‘Simpsons!’ he called to his family and they gathered together next to him, and did what they did so well, with Frankie in the middle.

‘I love this one.’

‘Me too.’

‘Marge! She’s my role model you know.’

‘She has better hair than you, Mum.’

I’m going!

Ruth was the first person Frankie wanted to tell.

FanTASTic! Ruth texted back.

You coming? Scott texted Frankie.

Yes. Frankie texted back.

‘Mummy! Put your phone down.’

There had been a time, after university and once she’d landed her first job at a greetings-card company, when Frankie aspired to living in Hampstead. It seemed such a perfect place: slightly bohemian, still villagey, up high as if it had cleaner air than the rest of London. She’d gaze at the buildings and imagine herself ensconced in basement flats or up in attics – all bare floorboards and faded kilims, old tub chairs, iron bedsteads and little framed engravings of the same streets in Victorian times. But she’d never been able to afford to rent and, when a decade later a healthy advance on her Alice books could have supported a debilitating mortgage for somewhere tiny around Parliament Hill, Hampstead had changed anyway.

Around that time Peta married and moved there. Frankie had gently envied her until, before long, there was a general exodus of everything unique in the area. Quirky boutiques were seen off by upmarket clothing chains, little delis replaced by pricey generic ones, humble cafés and the occasional corner shop swallowed up by each and every coffee company. But still, above eye level, the windows and chimneys and brickwork and roofs of the beautiful buildings remained unaltered. And, Frankie had to admit, a visit to Whistles or Karen Millen for first time in nine months was attractive. She could stock up on jeans and tops for the kids from Gap and then pop across to Waterstones to check stock levels of her books after which a frappuccino might be in order.

Peta’s house had changed since Frankie had last visited.

‘Grey,’ Peta explained. ‘Actually – greige. It’s all about greige these days.’

‘Where are the menfolk?’

‘Philip’s at bloody work – of course – and the boys are at athletics. They’ll be home soon.’ Peta smiled at Annabel. ‘They’re looking forward to seeing you.’

Annabel rolled her eyes at her mother and, for a moment, Frankie was sure she was going to say bloody thugs. But then again, Peta would probably concur.

‘Take your stuff upstairs and freshen up – I’ve made us a light lunch.’

Frankie poked her head around the door to the smallest spare room to find Annabel staring at the bed.

‘Auntie Peta always puts this doll and this teddy out for me,’ she told her mum.

‘That’s because she’s thoughtful,’ said Frankie. ‘She has a soft spot for you because you’re a gorgeous girl and not a monstrous boy.’

‘I think I’d probably rather have stayed at home though,’ said Annabel. ‘What with you going out and everything.’

Frankie thought about it. ‘But Auntie Peta has planned popcorn and chocolate and a DVD just for the both of you. Also she has much better nail varnishes than me.’

‘Listen!’

The house appeared to shake.

‘It’s only Stan and Josh,’ Frankie said.

‘Do you think they’ll talk to me?’

‘Think of it as a mercy if they don’t,’ Frankie laughed.

‘Do you think Sam’s OK?’

Frankie looked at her watch. ‘The match’ll be under way.’

‘Don’t you think it’s odd – not being the three of us?’

Frankie nodded. ‘It is odd. But it’s also normal for there to be times when we have to do – our own things.’

‘I don’t have my own things to do,’ said Annabel crossly. ‘I just have to follow.’

‘Your time’ll come,’ Frankie said, stroking her daughter’s little face and putting her hand back there even after Annabel had pushed it away.

Later, Annabel watched Frankie get changed.

‘What’s wrong with the clothes you were wearing?’

‘Nothing?’ Frankie said.

‘So why are you getting changed? It’s only teatime.’

‘I felt stuffy in what I was wearing – after the long car journey and everything. Anyway, I’m going out to dinner – and I don’t often wear a frock these days.’

‘A dress – it’s called a dress,’ said Annabel. ‘What time will you be back?’

How many times today had her daughter already asked her this? ‘I don’t know. But lateish.’ Frankie wished Annabel would just rummage around her make-up bag or try on her shoes and stop asking her these questions.