The words were still flashing back in her head at random intervals. Each time it made her stop momentarily, and wince. Tara didn’t recognize the Toby of last night. The last time – the only time – she’d seen Toby that drunk was after someone’s sixteenth birthday party, when he’d vomited a litre of peach schnapps outside the house at 3 a.m. and Tara had crept down to sluice the steps before Mum woke up. Normally Toby was a genial drunk, like Dad, not mean. And even taking into account the weird effects of Hero’s gin, why had he said what he said?

Tara had genuinely blanked out the episode with Branston. Now Toby had dislodged it, fragments were coming back – Branny’s limp, a memory of him coming back from the vet’s with red bandages – but she didn’t recognize herself in it. The mortification was real, though. Lloyd’s cheerful pat-seeking was particularly hard for Tara to bear in the cool light of morning.

It had rained all night, and it was still raining now. Big puddles had formed along the flower beds, and the sky was colourless.

‘I’ll keep you updated on the plans,’ said Keith over Molly’s head, in a cheery tone that implied he hadn’t told her exactly why he was going to Ireland, a suspicion confirmed when Molly hugged him, and said, ‘Give my love to Mummy and tell her get well soon.’

‘I will.’ Over Molly’s head, he mimed someone sneezing which Tara took to mean ‘she’s got a bad cold’, although other interpretations were, she supposed, possible.

Jaded, Tara made a cup of tea and some toast which they ate – still no sign of Toby – while she tried to think of ways to amuse Molly for a whole day. Ideally ways that worked well around a hangover.

‘Where’s Sybil?’ Molly asked, looking for the cat. She liked to make an equal fuss of Sybil so as not to create what she called ‘brother–sister rivalry’ with Lloyd. If only it was that easy.

‘She doesn’t like rain. She’ll be hiding somewhere.’

‘Oh.’ Molly raised worried eyes to Tara. ‘Indoors, or outdoors?’

‘I don’t know.’ Tara decided not to tell Molly Sybil was no fan of thunderstorms either, and that she’d turned herself invisible. ‘Her breakfast was gone ten minutes after I put it down so …’

Molly seemed satisfied by that. ‘What are we going to do today?’

Sleep? Eat brownie mix out of the bowl? Make lists of drinks that are never allowed across my threshold again? Tara summoned up what little energy she had left. ‘How about you help me with some of my eBaying?’