October 2013, Wednesday morning

I’d only been to the US once before, when we all went ranching together in 2007. Rose had been just four, rounding up cattle all day, her tiny pony galloping up the hillside and getting there as soon as any of us. Her feet not reaching any stirrups, no hard-hat small enough, falling asleep in the saddle on the way back home at the end of the long hot days. Great for her balance, we were told: what the real cowboys do.

That autumn of 2013, my brother, who works for the Templeton Foundation, had kindly put an opportunity of work my way, to visit America again: interviewing Desmond Tutu’s daughter – the man himself, awarded the Templeton Prize that year, due at Buckingham Palace – for the presentation, at a theological conference in Baltimore.

So I arranged to go half a week early, to stay with friends of my brother’s in Washington DC and discover a bit more – enjoy my first real taste – of the New World and its history. An agent had advised me I must include the States in my next book, so I had planned a scene in Washington DC.

I was due in Heathrow by midday on Wednesday, the day after Bink disappeared. From the police’s point of view. She had disappeared from our lives long before.

You must cancel, Serena said.

We must all be here for her.

She was found at six am.

Angry with Gatsby – perhaps desperate more accurate – because he had promised to look after her. The only reason she was living with him. She needed a carer. The only way he could make her part of his life: promise round the clock, twenty-four-seven, solo saviour.

Then found he couldn’t care for her twenty-four-seven after all, because his daughter needed him.

We must be there for her, Serena said. Such a cry for attention, such a strident and disruptive-of-everything cry, obviously means she needs attention.

Why would you cry for it, otherwise?

As before, I have no detailed memory of what we did between six o’clock and eight, except try to find out which hospital she was in.

Gatsby said he didn’t know.

She won’t want you to turn up, he said ominously. Dread the fall-out, if you do.

(We really don’t care, Gatsby. She is our daughter. You look after yours.)

So we just took a guess.

In the car on the way, I managed to get hold of Helen, Bink’s wonderful psychologist.

Are we doing the right thing? Should I cancel my flight?

I can’t tell you that, Helen said. It’s your call.

Is she just being manipulative? She we ignore it?

I never use the word, Helen said. We all manipulate each other, to get what we need. Just, some people do it better than others: less inconveniently.

I rang the airline. Changed my flight to Friday. Not much penalty. Except, of course, the penalty of missing my experience of Washington DC.

The opportunity never came up again. The scene in my book, based on the city, had to be researched online.

Gatsby was there before us. Interesting, given that he didn’t know where she was. Given that his own daughter needed him.

Respect for a minor prevents my explaining why; but she really, really did.

Staking his claim to Bink had suddenly become more important.

The drive of the loins taking precedence over the fruit thereof.

I stared, aghast.

None of the men in my family even noticed. There are some things – I never used to be sexist like this: life and experience have changed me – there are some things men just don’t seem to get.

Her hair: grubby, grey, tied back with a rubber band.

And all gone.

All that beautiful gold... gone gone gone.

What happened?

Chopped it off with my kitchen scissors, Gatsby said proudly.

It’s cool, isn’t it?

Not for the last time that day, I could have done things to him with those kitchen scissors.