Maggie decided not to remind her of that now. Amelia was apparently so set on forging this cool new image for herself that she would rather rewrite any parts of her history that might be viewed by others as dorky or strange. And so archaeology was now ‘really boring’. Historical ruins were ‘totally lame’. Geological investigations were for weirdos. Instead, thanks to the influence of wretched Tara Webster and the rest of her gang, Amelia was now mostly interested in applying flicky eyeliner and clumpy mascara, the latest banal YouTuber and obsessed with social media.

But Maggie was not thinking about Tara Webster, she reminded herself. ‘Let’s get going anyway, before the Friday traffic becomes too heinous,’ she said instead. ‘Ready?’

‘Suppose so,’ grunted Amelia with all the reluctance of someone facing several hours of root-canal work at the dentist. She forced herself off the sofa and upright, a weary If I have to expression on her face.

‘Great,’ said Maggie, feeling her voice becoming tighter with each word, in her desperation to remain cheerful. ‘In that case, the holiday starts here!’

Amelia had been a sickly little thing as a baby: sallow and small, suffering terribly from eczema until she was five, when Maggie had finally discovered the precise combination of washing-powder brand, medication and non-dairy products that seemed to help. Those early years now felt like a blur of despair and exhaustion: all the dreadful nights they’d shared weeping together, Amelia’s sheets covered in specks of blood where she’d been unable to stop scratching, however much emollient cream Maggie slathered on her, however many scratch-mitts and soothing baths they tried. It had bonded them, though, such horror, forging a deep primal alliance between the two of them, partners in combat. When Will had walked out seven months after Amelia’s birth, claiming he couldn’t cope, the bond between mother and daughter only strengthened.

Maggie had never forgiven Will for leaving them in their darkest hour. She despised him for caring so little about their child that he could leave like that, with barely any contact over the ensuing years. He was a photographer, footloose and fancy-free, and she would occasionally see his work pop up in glossy magazines, immediately feeling a rush of anger at the sight of his name. For years she had been unable to help comparing whatever exciting thing Will might be doing at any given moment with her own humdrum life.

He is crouching in a warzone right now, she would think dully, with heavy gunfire shattering the air around him, seeing men die through a camera lens. I, meanwhile, am raking the nit comb through our daughter’s hair and examining the white teeth for telltale dark specks.

He is having lunch in an expensive hushed hotel with a magazine editor who wants to commission a reportage special. Over in suburbia, however, I am cajoling our toddler to eat peas and sweetcorn.