Stupid, stupid question. Stupid, stupid man. How were they doing? It was three weeks since Patrick had died; they were probably doing about as abysmally as Dan. Worse, if anything. He’d last seen them at the funeral, after which he had borne both Zoe’s gaze- avoiding reproach (This happened on your watch ) and the louder, shriller version from his mum (‘I don’t understand. Why did you let Patrick go off like that? Over a stupid argument. Honestly, Daniel!’). He had ended up repeating Sorry and He went before I could stop him on a miserable kind of loop, before resorting to desperate self- defence: Look, you know what Patrick was like – he was totally out of order, all right? I was angry! Except that this had been greeted by the pursed lips and judgemental head- shaking that were somehow worse than any yelled accusations. Yes, and now he’s dead, his mum’s silence said. Dead – and you’re the one to blame.

‘Oh, you know,’ Zoe replied, voice flat. ‘Limping along. Bea, stop that now, come on,’ she added, when the little girl showed no signs of ending her grizzling.

‘But I want it,’ whined Bea, leaning against a rack of magazines. There was one with free plastic fairy wings attached that she kept plucking. ‘I want it, Mummy, very badly. Pleeeeease?’

‘No,’ snapped Zoe. ‘I’ve said no, and that’s that. Get your hands off it before you crease the pages; you’re not having it. Enough!’

Bea slumped against the trolley as if she’d been shot. ‘It’s not fair,’ she howled, fresh tears springing from her eyes. ‘You’re so mean to me. I hate you.’

You could practically hear Zoe’s teeth grinding as she tried to hang on to her patience. ‘I said enough.’ Her knuckles were white against the trolley handle, her face tightening as an elderly woman walked past and made a disapproving tut. ‘And I mean it. Any more and I’ll get cross.’

Dan opened his mouth. He wanted to say, I’m sorry. He wanted to say, I know this is all my fault. He wanted to say, Let me finish that shopping for you, let me do something to help. I’ll buy that magazine for Bea – I’ll buy all of them – I don’t mind. ‘How are the boys?’ he asked instead. Bea was now kicking the trolley mutinously, a pink light flashing on her scruffy white trainer with every kick; a cross, defiant unicorn with a flushed face and blazing eyes.