He had a story that he could live with, maybe even one he could defend to other people, if Becky ever forced him to. He had spent sixteen years finding ways to not be in the wrong. He wouldn’t unpick them now. Not for her. But she could at least unpick herself from him. And she had done.

To begin with Maisie had blamed it on the Amber story, the sudden gulf between her parents. But as time passed, and Maisie learnt from Adam that he didn’t at all blame Becky for what she’d done, Maisie’s questions grew sharper. She wanted their old life back, and it wasn’t happening, and nobody seemed able to tell her why; Becky understood all that, but still hadn’t thought of a way to explain her bone-deep need to be far, far away from Adam.

‘So what is it? Why won’t you tell me?’ Maisie had said.

‘Our friendship’s changed. It’s just time for us both to move on.’

‘Move on from what?’

‘Just move on. Try to meet people that we might have a future with.’

‘That’s bollocks. You’re not even dating.’

‘Can you just leave it?’

‘No! Why do I have to see Dad on my own just because you’re “moving on” even though you’re actually not doing that? That’s really shit.’

Becky thought: yes, but I can live with that. And I can’t live with the way things were, not now.

So Maisie came and went between school and home, weekdays and weekends, seeing Adam when she could – until Becky began noticing that Maisie was returning from each visit less animated and more subdued. When gently questioned, Maisie reported how pancake-day had turned to cereal and then, lately, nothing at all: no groceries in his fridge, hence no offers of food. He bought her takeaways now, if she said she was hungry. And then, uncorked, Maisie talked about Adam’s unopened post and the foetid smell in his apartment, and about how much she missed the old Adam and their jokes and, finally, directed with full force at Becky, how angry she was that Becky wasn’t doing anything about it.

And all Becky had said was, ‘This isn’t about me. He’s not like that because of me.’ Fuck being held accountable for him.

‘Mum, I know people have called you about him. Everyone’s worried and you’re meant to be his best friend and you don’t even care!’

Becky’s answers were always a variant of the same neutral thing: she didn’t know for sure what was wrong with him, hadn’t seen him much herself recently, in fairness he wasn’t really speaking to her either.