And yet. Becky has weathered the storm, has she not? Siobhan will get her reference and keep her silence. Amber will live or die, and that’s not up to Becky. The stories in the papers, already fading, will vanish altogether. Her film will pick up more cast members, more money. She will choose her staff and, unlike Siobhan, they will be grateful for the opportunity to work hard for her. To learn from her. Everything can now flower into life.

‘Sorry,’ she says, when she realizes someone must have said something to her, because everyone is looking to her like they’re expecting an answer. ‘Still haven’t got my strength back from Camber. What did you say?’

‘Only should we put the pizzas on?’ says Adam. ‘It’s OK. Let me take care of things.’

‘I think I just need some coffee. I’ll make it.’ Becky gets up and puts the kettle on. ‘Any other takers?’

‘I like my coffee like I like my women,’ says Adam, in a husky bass tone. ‘Served in a mug.’

‘I like my coffee like I like my men,’ replies Maisie instantly. ‘Strong. And yet decaffeinated.’

‘Open another present,’ says Grandma T, rolling her eyes. She knows that left unchecked they might do this routine for another five minutes.

Becky heaps two spoons of coffee granules into a mug. The idea of making proper coffee is too much.

‘Next present,’ declares Adam. ‘Who’s this one from?’

‘This is from Jules.’

‘Who’s Jules?’ asks Grandma T.

‘A boy who likes Maisie,’ says Adam.

‘Dad! Back off.’

‘What?’ cries Adam, doing his outraged New York Jewish matriarch bit. ‘A boy shouldn’t like my beautiful girl? Boys shouldn’t write poetry about this beautiful face of hers?’

Maisie squirms.

‘Adam, you’re embarrassing her,’ says his father.

‘That’s my job! Maisie, tell him!’

‘It’s his job, Grandpa, and he’s extremely good at it.’ Maisie shoots pretend eye-daggers at Adam.

Becky sits back down with her coffee. ‘What’s this one?’ She can’t seem to hold anything in her head.

Maisie tears open an A4-sized envelope. She pulls out a folder. And bursts out laughing.

‘What is it?’

‘Oh my God, I can’t believe he actually did this!’

‘Did what?’

‘OK,’ says Maisie to her grandparents. ‘So me and Jules have this joke that I’m a Viking or from Denmark or something because I’m tall.’

‘What?’ says Grandma, perplexed.

‘It’s just this stupid joke. With my eye colour and everything, I must have come from Viking stock. We do this whole thing with me feasting instead of eating at school lunch, and any time I go off he’s like, Maisie’s off pillaging. Lock up your livestock and clay jugs.’

‘But you’re tall because your mother’s tall. It’s something to be proud of, it’s …’