‘Adults are big kids at heart. They’re worried about their feelings being spotted sometimes. Covering them up lessens the risk of, I don’t know, being hurt I suppose.’

Becky folds her arms tight across her chest and looks up at the ceiling.

‘It’s a stupid strategy.’

‘How many times did he call you Danish or a Viking or whatever?’

‘All night. I was like, my dad’s short and skinny and looks more like he’s from Spain than Iceland.’

‘I’m the same height as your mum!’

‘And she’s definitely not Scandi?’

‘He’s really got inside your head, hasn’t he?’

‘I really don’t care.’

‘I believe you.’ Adam is deadpan. Becky smiles, pressing a palm to her mouth to stifle a laugh.

‘Shut up, Dad!’

‘I’m saying I believe you!’

‘You’re so annoying.’

‘If it’s any consolation, you take after your mum, and your mum’s gorgeous.’

Becky takes her palm away from her mouth and smiles, feeling the warmth of a gentle kind of joy, alongside a strange sense of achievement – like being awarded a certificate for something.

‘It’s not a consolation,’ says Maisie. ‘I’m still really annoyed with you.’

‘With me?’

‘Yes, you’re being a dick.’

‘You’re not at all annoyed with Jules, and I’m the problem?’

‘That sums it up. And stop laughing!’

Becky enters the kitchen. In an instant Maisie’s ferment is forgotten and she flings her arms around her mum. ‘We missed you, oh Queen of the movie industry,’ she says.

Adam turns to Becky and smiles. ‘Seriously, well done. Welcome to your celebration tea party! You’re actually going to get a feature film made.’

They hug each other.

‘It hasn’t happened yet,’ she says, looking around the kitchen in awe at how they have decorated it: silver lamé hanging off picture rails and cupboard corners, golden balloons bouncing across the floor. She feels loved. ‘But thank you for this. What a lovely way to celebrate a breakthrough.’

Adam, tea cloth flung casually over his shoulder and a smile painted across his flour-dusted face, takes the pile of post from her hands and helps her with her coat. Leafing through it and seeing that only bills remain, he turns to put them in his bag.

‘No, don’t,’ Becky says, taking the envelopes back.

‘Let me,’ he says, pressing his hand over hers in such a way that is more soft than firm, in such a way that she has to let go.

‘Let him, Mum,’ shouts Maisie over the scrape of chair leg on tiles. ‘I would ideally like to continue having hot showers until we’re living off your movie mogul billions.’