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art lessons in Florence followed by trekking in Nepal. Other people’s hard-earned money had been squandered on her pleasure. The thought of it still made her feel sick with anger; with self-reproach. But how could she have known? She’d only been a child. And her father had managed to fool everybody. Until his car crash, halfway through her first year at university. His sudden, horrific, unexpected death.
    Candice felt her face grow hot all over again, and tightly gripped the plastic armrests of her seat as, with a jolt, the train started up again. Despite everything, she still felt grief for her father. A searing, angry grief— not only for him, but for her innocence; her childhood. She grieved for the time when the world had seemed to make sense; when all she’d felt for her father was love and pride. The time when she’d happily held her head high and been proud of her name and family. Beforeeverything had suddenly darkened and become boated in dishonesty.
    After his death, there hadn’t been nearly enough money left to pay everyone back. Most people had given up asking; a few had taken her mother to court. It had been several years before everyone was finally settled and silenced. But the pain had never been alleviated; the damage had never been properly repaired. The consequences to people’s lives could not be settled so quickly.
    Candice’s mother Diana had moved away to Devon, where no-one had heard of Gordon Brewin. Now she lived in a state of rigid denial. As far as she was concerned, she had been married to a loving, honourable man, maligned after his death by evil rumours— and that was the end of it. She allowed herself no true memories of the past, felt no guilt; experienced no pain.
    If Candice ever tried to bring up the subject of her father, Diana would refuse to listen, refuse to talk about it; refuse to admit— even between the two of them— that anything had happened. Several years after moving to Devon she had begun a relationship with a mild-mannered, elderly man named Kenneth— and he now acted as a protective buffer. He was always present when Candice visited, ensuring that conversation never ventured beyond the polite and inconsequential. And so Candice had given up trying to get her mother to confront the past. There was no point, she had decided— and at least Diana had salvaged some happiness in her life. But she rarely visited her mother any more. The duplicity and weakness of the whole situation— the fact that Diana wouldn’t admitthe truth, even to her own daughter— slightly sickened Candice.
    As a result, she had found herself shouldering the entire burden of memories herself. She would not allow herself the easy option, like her mother; she would not allow herself to forget or deny. And so she had learned to live with a constant guilt; a constant, angry shame. It had mellowed a little since those first nightmare years; she had learned to put it to the back of her mind and get on with her life. But the guilt had never quite left her.
    Tonight, however, she felt as though she’d turned a corner. Perhaps she couldn’t undo what her father had done. Perhaps she couldn’t repay everyone. But she could repay Heather Trelawney— if not in money, then in help and friendship. Helping Heather as much as she possibly could would be her own private atonement.

    As she got off the tube at Highbury and Islington, she felt light and hopeful. She briskly walked the few streets to the Victorian house where she had lived for the last two years, let herself in at the front door and bounded up the flight of stairs to her first-floor flat.
    â€œHey, Candice.” A voice interrupted her as she reached for her Yale key, and she turned round. It was Ed Armitage, who lived in the flat opposite. He was standing in the doorway of his flat, wearing ancient jeans and eating a Big Mac. “I’ve got that Sellotape, if you want it