I Invited Her In: The new domestic psychological thriller from Sunday Times bestselling author Adele Parks. Adele Parks

Abi’s eyes follow me. Dejected. Distraught.

      Hearing about Rob’s infidelity isn’t pleasant but it isn’t a surprise to me, as it is to her. I’ve long since thought that he’s an arrogant, untrustworthy creep. One of the reasons Abi and I haven’t stayed in touch is that I really didn’t like being around Rob. I get no pleasure in being proven right.

      The girls have abandoned the coaster making and migrated towards Abi and me. I can’t decide if it was the lure of the brownies or if they did hear enough of her conversation and feel curious. It’s awkward. Obviously, Abi isn’t used to being around kids and self-censoring. They stare at her, transfixed, somehow able to sense – even at their young ages – that they are in the presence of something, someone, truly exciting. Abi watches them as they cram cake into their little pink and pouty mouths. She can’t help but be enchanted, too. Even in their little sweatshirts, grubby from a day at school, they are adorable.

      ‘I should have brought gifts,’ she says with a sigh.

      ‘No, no,’ I insist. I didn’t expect gifts. Although the girls might. They shouldn’t. It’s not something I approve of or encourage. However, we are pretty lucky. On the whole, when people turn up for dinner or lunch, they invariably arrive with a bottle of wine for me and Ben, and chocolates or sweets for the kids. It doesn’t matter that Abi hasn’t thought to bring a little something. Yes, she’s staying with us for – well actually I’m not sure how long she is staying for, it hasn’t been discussed – some time at least, but that doesn’t mean we should expect gifts. All that said, the girls hover, none too discreetly, over her handbag. They are clearly hoping she’s bluffing and that she might produce something any moment now, like a magician produces a rabbit from a hat. She does seem rather magical. Abi sees them loiter with intent and takes the hint, but it’s obvious to me that she really hasn’t brought anything. She roots around her handbag, pulls out a half-eaten packet of nicotine chewing gum.

      ‘I was trying to quit. Until all this happened,’ she explains. For a moment, she seems to consider gifting the gum to them but then thinks better of it. ‘Ah, here we go!’ She pulls out a duty-free plastic bag and then passes Lily a Clinique lipstick and hands Imogen a bottle of Chanel No. 5. The girls look stunned, not because of the brands, which mean nothing to them, but because someone has just handed them make-up.

      ‘Oh no, they couldn’t accept those,’ I say hastily.

      ‘Why not?’

      I don’t know how to reply. I can’t explain that the gifts are inappropriate and clearly unintended for the recipients; those objections seem rude. Nor can I say they’d be more greatly appreciated if she gifted them to me. I get new perfume once a year, Christmas, off my mum and dad. They buy me Eternity by Calvin Klein. They’ve bought the same one for years. I love it but can barely smell it on myself anymore, I’m that used to it. I suddenly imagine the excitement of wearing a new scent and want to grab the box off Imogen. But the objection that the gifts might be more dearly appreciated by me is null and void, since Imogen and Lily are openly ecstatic. They are both wearing a gash of scarlet lipstick somewhere in the vicinity of their mouths. Imogen has ripped the perfume box open and is liberally spraying the scent around the room as though it’s air freshener.

      ‘Don’t waste that, Immie. It’s expensive.’

      ‘Oh, they’re happy,’ says Abi. Again, I can’t quite compute her tone. Maybe she’s making a delighted observation or she could be inferring I’m a nag and that I should leave them alone.

      ‘What do you say, girls?’ I hate it that I have to prompt them. They are normally quite well-mannered but I think the adultness of the gift has overwhelmed them. They mumble none-too-convincing thank yous. Embarrassed, I mutter, ‘You know how kids are.’

      I wonder, does she? How much contact has she had? Other than the people who turn up on her chat-show sofa, does she have any interaction with kids? Is she a godmother to anyone? She must be, right? She’s perfect godparent material.

      At that moment, I hear the front door bang against the hall wall and a rucksack being dropped. I look out of the kitchen window and notice that the street lamps are on, the sky has turned a deep indigo; it will be black as a bruise in another hour. ‘Liam’s home,’ I announce. ‘He’s been at football practice.’

      Liam lopes into the room and I am, as always, so very pleased to see him. Liam has an easy, cheerful manner, besides which he manages his two younger sisters with flair and effective ease; he’ll probably be able to retrieve the lippy and scent. I know Abi will be impressed by his height and his manners – all my friends always are.

      ‘Liam, come and meet a friend of mine.’ I jump up and rush to him. I thread my arm through his, just resisting presenting him with a ta-da. ‘This is Abi – we went to university together.’

      He was expecting her, or at least he should have been; the house has been turned upside down by her imminent arrival and yet he looks surprised. Typical boy. It’s possible that he’s forgotten we’ve a house guest staying for a few days. Still, his manners are as perfect as ever. He leans forward and extends his hand for her to shake. She reaches for it and at the same time gracefully pulls herself up to standing.

      ‘Oh my God. I wouldn’t have known him.’

      ‘Well, you haven’t seen him since he was about two months old,’ I point out, laughing.

      ‘He’s—’ She pauses, remembering that he’s in the room. ‘You’re all grown up,’ she murmurs, obviously shocked that in a blink of an eye my baby has turned into this. Looking at Liam no doubt makes Abi feel old in a way that even birthdays can’t. I totally understand. Kids are like egg-timers. Times slips through your fingers like sand, as you stand back and watch them grow.

      ‘A-levels this year,’ I say proudly.

      ‘Really? What subjects?’

      ‘Maths, philosophy and politics,’ Liam reels off his subject choices.

      ‘Wow, clever as well.’ I’m grateful that she hasn’t spelt out exactly what he is, besides clever.

      He’s handsome.

      There’s no doubt about it. Quite particularly so. But he’s young and absolutely hates it when my friends say as much, even though they are only trying to pay him a compliment. Even now, under her gaze, he blushes a little bit. He keeps his head down, his blond, sleek, straight fringe falling over his eyes. His eyes are arguably his best feature. Deep, dark blue pools. Framed with long, thick lashes. I already pity the girls who are going to feel the heat of his gaze once he fully understands the power of it. I suppose there will be quite a few. He has been seeing Tanya for eight months now; it’s serious but it can’t be it. He’s too young. There were girls before her, and there will be others after.

      ‘Yeah, he’s smart,’ I say, not being able to hide my pride. ‘Wants to change the world, does our Liam. Don’t you, love?’

      Liam shrugs. He thinks I’m being flip about his ambitions to become a politician, to champion the rights of those without voices, to find a way of doing the right thing in a world where doing the wrong thing seems to pay, but I’m not. I’m proud of him. A little daunted, to be honest. His ambitions seem so big.

      Liam turns to his sisters, engaging with genuine interest. ‘What have you got on your face?’

      ‘Lipstick,’ they chorus, giggling proudly. They fling themselves at him, and cling like limpets. Although he is too old to comfortably accept a hug from his mum, I’m pleased to say he still cuddles his younger sisters with genuine zeal. Well really, they don’t give him any choice.

      ‘Have you two had your tea?’ he asks. I glance at the clock guiltily. It’s past six. I normally feed the girls by quarter to five. I’ve been distracted by Abi’s arrival.

      ‘Wow, no, no they haven’t. You must be starving, girls.’ Although probably not – Abi hasn’t touched the brownies and yet there’s only one left on the plate. ‘What do you want?’ I