Richie rang her to say Ash would be late. She was supposed to be arriving at 6pm; now it would be an hour later. Was that okay?

Fine, Lillian said. She'd heard this kind of thing before. Ex-wives who made life difficult for their former husbands, buggaring up their arrangements and changing things at the last minute. Especially if they thought a new girlfriend was involved.

Maybe this was something she had to get used to—all very grown-up and 'new situation'. Richie had rung off before she could ask him if that meant she should come around later. Probably? It gave her the chance to spend more time on her clothes and make-up.

Who knew what a prospective step-mother should look like? Mumsy she guessed, rummaging through her wardrobe to see if anything suitable leapt out. The tea-print dress worn with a cashmere cardigan was very 1950s, a look that said 'mother' to Lillian as it reminded her of the picture books she'd read as a child and their 2.4 nuclear families, mum a housewife, dad a pipe smoking, briefcase carrier.

'Mother' and a small girl's utterance of it. She closed her eyes and shook the word away. It didn't feel comfortable, echoing tinnily inside her head.

She asked the taxi driver to drop her at the end of Richie's street. He lived in a detached house on the south side of Glasgow, near to Bellahouston. You got a lot more for your money on the south side of the city and Richie had told her he'd got on the property ladder at 22, thanks to marrying so young.

She'd seen the house before, but only briefly and in the dark. The early evening summer sunshine highlighted blonde stone buildings and red tiles, leafy avenues and cul-de-sacs. Number 32 didn't stand out, but the garden drew the eye. The front lacked privacy, but her approach to the house from the right afforded her a view behind the house. The garden stretched back fifty metres or so, its lawn broken up by paths, flower beds and a patio furnished with a table and chairs and a hammock.

Lillian bet to herself Richie had a barbecue. And that at least twice every summer, he opened his home and garden to family and friends and fired it up. She saw them, mingling, chatting, drinks in hand. There she was, at the centre of the group, laughing as she handed one man a beer, asked another if he wanted a second burger.

Laughing, Lillian! Relaxed, Lillian!

Wind chimes dangled on the door porch, tinkling in the breeze as she leant forward and pushed the doorbell.

The door swung open seconds later, Richie's face creased and his mouth down-turned. He grabbed her to him, though, and pressed the back of her head to his face—the kiss deep and fast.

"Hey, sorry—bastard of a day. I'm glad you're here. Eh... Ash got here early after all. Brace yourself."

He gestured towards the room on the right. So far, Lillian had taken in neutral décor; the kind of wallpaper, paint and carpets estate agents recommended when you wanted to sell a house. The blandness disappointed her. John's voice sounded—we're not all artistic, Lillian! Give the guy a break.

He was right, of course.

Lillian pushed open the door to the living room and stepped inside, friendly smile plastered in place. "Hello Ashley! I'm Lillian and your dad's told me so many wonderful...

She didn't get a chance to say the words, the utterance of them stopped as soon as she saw Ash. When did you say he got divorced, are you sure Ash is six... the words flashed before her. How had she managed to get this so spectacularly wrong?

Slouched on the couch in front of her was a teenage girl—sixteen or seventeen at least. She hadn't looked up either; too focused on her mobile phone or at least pretending to be. Lillian took in dark hair and eyes, and a body that seemed to take over the sofa it lay on.

Richie came in the room behind her. "Ash! Sit up. Say hello to Lillian."

An exaggerated sigh and swing of the legs so she sat upright, Ash fixed her gaze on Lillian, sweeping her eyes from top to bottom. Did she have laser vision? Those eyes appeared to burn through the dress, inspect Lillian's underwear and find it wanting.

The bag in Lillian's hand dangled. She slid it behind her, praying that Ash hadn't noticed.

"Did you get me a present?"

Ash stood up. She was taller than she looked lying down, equal to Lillian in height. They eyeballed each other. Lillian could see nothing of Richie in his daughter. She shrank back from the girl, and spotted that Ash noticed and smirked, holding a hand out for the bag.

What to say now? And for fuck's sake, why did she have to be this age, dark-haired and dark-eyed, arrogant, rude and so sure of her place in the world?

Lillian swapped the bag from one hand to the other. How to play this?

"I was wrong," she said, hating the sound of her voice, squeaky and apologetic. "I thought you were a lot younger."

She turned to face Richie, his face still creased with anxiety. "I should have double checked. Sorry."

Was Richie going to help her here? It didn't seem like it. Ash snatched the bag from her, making short work of the carefully wrapped John Lewis gifts. The first one she opened was the doll. She held the box up and waved it.

"Yeah, great if I was still six." She threw the doll and its box onto the sofa where it rolled on the cushions coming to a rest in the corner.

"I'm sorry, um, why don't we..."

But Ash was too busy tearing her way into the second present. Opening the High School Musical mat produced an entirely different reaction.

"Seriously?" Ash held the box up and shook it hard. "Is this a fucking joke? You rotten cow."

She threw it at Lillian, not giving her enough time to hold her hands up in defence. The box hit her square in the face and thudded to the ground, jangling the bits inside. Ash stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her. They listened to her thump her way up the stairs and another crash as a door slammed.

Lillian bent to pick up the box, her back raw and exposed and her face smarting. Where was Richie? She straightened slowly, turning to face him and determined not to say anything until he spoke.

The man facing her had his eyes closed. Did he magic himself away from trouble this way? Lillian wasn't going to make it any easier for him.

Richie opened his eyes and opened his arms in supplication. "I'm sorry. The difficult day thing... Ash auditioned for the X Factor earlier this year and she heard today she didn't make it. The High Street Musical thing... probably rubbed it in."

Then, puzzlement. "Why did you think she was so young?"

She looked at him then, noting the hard expression. Was there accusation in his eyes, the way they squinted and stared? Her mind ran through the things she should have done—shown more interest in her lover's child, for a start. Asked the questions that counted—how old is your daughter? Where does she got to school? What year is she in? How has she dealt with the divorce? When do you see her and how often? What are her interests?

Anger and anxiety surfaced instead. Bloody rude! No apology! Allowed to speak to a guest in that way! The anxiety made its presence known in the way it always did, a churning of her insides and a desperate desire to run—bolt from this place and find somewhere at the opposite end of the country.

Ashley is my daughter. This is what my child would have been.

Same age too.

Once formed, the words wouldn't go away. They thudded against the front of her head. Lillian had to leave. There was no way to resolve this. Richie would always have Ashley—the girl who represented the child Lillian never had. And this kid hated her.

The barbecue she'd imagined earlier. The vision changed, an awkward gathering of people only there because they thought it polite and waiting for an hour or so to pass when they could leave. Lillian fluttered around them, dispensing drinks and snacks and laughing, goodness, wait till you taste our super burgers. Richie darted glances between her and Ashley, his daughter, a dark, brooding presence in the corner.

Everyone aware of it.

Lillian reminded every time that Ash was the child she never gave birth to; that circumstances had conspired to be unkind.

She stuffed the High Street Musical dance board back into the John Lewis bag. With any luck, the shop would take it back.

"I'm sorry. I got it wrong."

She swept past Richie and left the house, ignoring his cries, "Lillian, come back, it doesnae matter..."