‘I don’t see why he would be,’ said Nick, glancing in Stephen’s direction. Tact was not chief among his wife’s virtues.

‘Lots of the first English settlers were criminals,’ said Celia, undeterred.

As the day wore on Stephen’s headache abated, but the sadness persisted, like a growing hollow inside him. He didn’t think he’d take acid again, after this. He never felt very good afterwards, but this was much worse than the other times had been. It wasn’t just physical – the head, the heavy limbs, the slight edge of queasiness – but he felt weepy and alone. When he glanced in the mirror after having a pee, his face looked swollen, as ugly to him as a hatful of arseholes. He felt bad in his own skin.

Nick and Celia were going out to friends for dinner and Cass disappeared to her room early in the evening.

‘Shall I make you my treat supper?’ Georgie asked him.

‘Sounds good,’ he replied.

‘You won’t think so when you see what it is,’ she said.

‘Try me.’

He sat at the table while she put a pan of water on the stove and fished around in the larder for a packet of spaghetti. The Clarkes had real spaghetti in a long dark blue packet with Italian writing on it, not like the short-cut macaroni they had at home.

‘Do you know what I miss?’ he asked Georgie.

She raised her eyebrows in answer.

‘I miss Icy Poles. Oh and Sunny Boys, they’re good too.’

‘What on earth are you on about?’ Georgie smiled.

‘Lollies. The ices we have at home. Sunny Boys, they’re orange-flavoured. They’re in the shape of a triangle, there’s a pointy bit of cardboard at the top that you tear off with your teeth. And Paddle Pops. Banana Paddle Pops. And caramel ones! They’re the best.’

‘Oh, I wish you hadn’t mentioned lollies – now I want one. A strawberry Mivvi.’

‘You don’t keep any in your freezer?’

‘No, we only get them when we’re out. At the garage, or sometimes if we go down to the seaside. You haven’t been to the beach, have you, since you got here? We should go. Next time it’s a hot day.’

The water had come to the boil and Georgie stood over it, concentrating as she spooled the gradually softening spaghetti and folded it into the water. She found the colander and stood it ready in the sink.

‘OK, now I’m going to add masses of butter and then – this is what makes it so delicious – ketchup.’ She shook great dollops of tomato from the glass bottle.

‘That’s it?’ he asked. It never ceased to tickle her, his way of saying ‘it’, so it sounded like ‘eet’. She grinned at him.

‘Yup. My ultimate supper. Spaghetti à la ketchup.’

‘It’s a lot better than it looks,’ he conceded.