‘Yeah, but . . .’ Izzie dug the toe of her trainer into the soft carpet, despite Em having told her several times to take her shoes off while they were inside the house. ‘It’s not the same, is it?’

‘Well . . .’ Em felt stumped. She wished they’d had this conversation earlier, back at home, rather than here, when George might appear at any moment. ‘I mean, Dad takes you on holiday with him and Michelle, doesn’t he, so . . .’

‘Yeah, but we like Michelle. She’s really cool.’

Ouch. Double-punch from Izzie. ‘What, and you don’t like George?’ she asked, feeling hurt on his behalf. How could anyone not like George? And – hello! – since when had Michelle, the Queen of Flammable Hair and inch-thick make-up, been ‘really cool’ anyway? It wasn’t all that long ago that Izzie was bitching and moaning about her, and Em, although aiming for detached neutrality, was secretly drinking in every delicious insult.

Izzie shrugged in a way Em couldn’t interpret. ‘He’s a bit . . . fake,’ she replied.

What, and Michelle wasn’t, with those new knockers and all that collagen in her face? Put her too close to a naked flame and she’d combust (with a bit of luck). ‘He is not!’ Em protested.

‘Yeah, he is. He’s like – too nice. I don’t trust him.’ Izzie’s face had sealed up like a tomb suddenly, her eyes down on the floor.

Em opened her mouth then shut it again, taken aback. Izzie had never even hinted at such feelings before. When did her children become such mysteries to her? Had she taken her eye off the ball with the distraction of being swept up in her own romance, and turned into one of those negligent, selfish parents she was always tutting about with her friends? ‘Well . . . look . . . You just don’t know him very well, that’s all. But I promise you—’

‘Exactly! We don’t know him. So why have you invited him on holiday with us? How do you think that makes me and Jack feel, shunted aside for your bloody love-life?’

Just then – of course it had to be just then, with their voices raised and a horrible un-holidayish tension in the air – there was a knock at the open door and George came in. ‘Hello! We made it,’ he said jovially, and Em’s heart almost stopped, both with panic at the conversation he’d just walked into, and at how extremely handsome he was, even after a five-hour drive with a seven-year-old. Look at him, so tall and tanned, in his pale-blue T-shirt and jeans, dropping an overnight bag to the floor with a grin. She couldn’t tell from his expression if he’d heard what Izzie had just said or not, though. Not, she hoped, her stomach tying itself in knots.

‘Whoop-dee-doo,’ muttered Izzie, stalking out of the room, while Em tried to gather herself with heroic effort.