‘How come you get cocktails in the sun with little umbrellas and bits of pineapple and sexy people dressed in Armani and I can’t even go to a boring sleepover?’

‘School night. I admire your tenacity but you’re not going to magically persuade me that Wednesday is followed by Sunday.’ Becky smiles and ruffles her daughter’s hair. ‘Anyway, I thought you were working towards buying those trainers? Put in more revision time instead of going out and you’ll be a step closer to earning them. What are they called again? The Nike neon wattage …’

Maisie rolls her eyes. ‘Volt, Mum. Volt is the colour of the trainer, not its electrical charge.’

‘Great, the point is they’re so painfully hip that everyone will want to be your friend then you’ll never be short of an invitation so why not wait …’

‘Nice try but I’m fine with the invite I’ve got right now. Come on, Mum, please let me go? Only one boy is going to be there. He hardly counts.’

‘Definitely not. And it’s not about boys.’

A lie, but an easy one.

Becky takes some bread out of its cellophane bag and lines up two slices next to each other, all the while surveying the line of texts on her phone screen. Her stomach turns slowly at the slick of butter across the bread and twists in irritation at the congealed and messy blackcurrant jam refusing to spread tidily.

‘Who’s Scott?’

The question freezes Becky. How is it even possible that Maisie is asking it? Her laptop is closed. She’s always careful to log out and delete and tidy it all away. Becky is glad that she is facing away from her daughter. Even with years of practice, in moments like this she can be read.

‘He was an explorer. Died at the South Pole.’

‘Funny. Ish. Seriously, are you thinking about dating this guy?’

‘Which guy?’

When Maisie says his name – his full name – Becky feels like she has been cornered. Nowhere left to run.

‘Where’d you hear his name?’

‘You asked me to fix our rubbish Wi-Fi.’

‘And …?’

‘And so I logged into the router to see if anyone’s squatting on our connection and there wasn’t, but what there is is lots of visits to his Twitter and his Facebook and I was like, that’s a bit obsessive, Mum!’

Becky attempts to look calm. Blithe, she tells herself. Unruffled. Everything has to be weighed now. If Maisie asks Adam about Scott, any lie that she tells now will be easily unknotted. Something close to the truth is required.

‘He’s a guy I knew when I was younger. School days.’

‘He’s a sexy guy you used to know!’

‘Not my type.’

‘Why are you looking at him then?’