‘Yeah, and I’m not wildly happy about that, either, Mum.’ Izzie pursed her lips, her small pert nose in the air. She wound a thick lock of honey-coloured hair around her hand, then tossed it back over one shoulder. ‘Our rooms are right next to each other and I don’t want to hear anything, all right? It’s disgusting, at your age. It’s kind of desperate, too.’

At her age! Izzie made it sound as if Em was geriatric rather than in the prime of her middle years. That jibe about being desperate hurt too. Hardly! she wanted to cry in nettled self-defence. She had all but given up on men until George had come along and surprised her so delightfully; she had been fully prepared to see out her old age alone, nursing the remaining shreds of her dignity in spinsterly solitude. That was not what a desperate woman looked like, in Em’s opinion.

Nonetheless, Izzie’s words gave her pause for thought. I wish the others weren’t coming. Had Em made a colossal error in inviting George along? she wondered with renewed unease. Izzie and Jack spent so little time with her usually – they were out with friends, or playing for their hockey and football teams – that the three of them didn’t often socialize as a unit. She had anticipated – perhaps wrongly, admittedly – that they might want to do their own thing down in Cornwall too, sans Mum. Or had she been kidding herself on this front, so that she could throw herself into the arms of George, guilt-free?

‘I’m sure we’ll still do some things together, just the three of us,’ she promised, trying hastily to think of one. ‘George will have his daughter too, remember, who’s a bit younger and won’t be able to cope with long bike rides, for instance, so you, me and Jack could—’

‘Can I open this beer as well?’ yelled Jack from the kitchen. ‘Mum?’

‘No, you cannot – don’t you dare,’ she called back. ‘I’ve counted the bottles, before you get any ideas,’ she added for good measure. She gave Izzie a beseeching look, taking in the jut of her chin, the squaring of her shoulders. Izzie was sixteen now, and Em felt as if a countdown clock was permanently ticking in her head as her children grew up at seemingly astonishing speed. This might be the final holiday that her daughter would want to spend with them before opting for the wilder temptations of festivals and inter-railing with her mates in future summers. Em had been hoping for at least a few joyful, idyllic days together this time, to add to the photo albums and memory banks, but perhaps she’d been too ambitious. ‘Come on, love. It’ll be fine.’