‘This is the last time, OK? Thank you, but it’s the absolute last time.’ But Becky is feeling secretly relieved not to have to worry about the bills. And also guilty – at the stab of annoyance she felt when she saw Adam’s unfixed shelf. He is her lifeboat, it’s so churlish of her to worry about the fact he hasn’t repainted the stern.

‘So full of pride,’ says Adam.

‘So much pride and so little money,’ chirps Maisie. ‘It’s fine. I’m going to nail my exams and get my scholarship for sixth-form so at least you won’t have to worry about paying the school fees. And I’ve been thinking,’ she continues sombrely, ‘you don’t have to buy me those Volt trainers, Mum. They are way expensive and I can probably make do with decorating a pair of green-flash with poster paint. It’ll be less waste for the landfill and quite retro. I might even start a new trend?’

‘You’re ridiculous,’ laughs Becky. ‘Thank you for being thoughtful but we had a deal. Work hard, put the hours in and I will buy you those trainers the day before your first exam. You’ll have earned them.’

‘If you’re sure? It’s true that I’ve been working super-hard and I can nearly spell my whole name now.’

‘I simply don’t know why they bother making you do the exams, love.’ Adam is talking in his camp-uncle voice now. ‘It’s so depressing for the other children.’

‘Children ought to be depressed,’ counters Maisie, switching into her eco-hippie mode. ‘Your generation has fried this planet, man.’

‘We didn’t know! Nobody knew! We thought ozone layer was very bad layer! We tried make hole in him!’

They continue in this fashion for another minute. Becky is happy just to eat a cupcake and play audience, which is what they want from her. Eventually, when she can get a word in, she asks: ‘How was the sleepover?’

‘Absolutely fine, thanks.’ And when Maisie proffers nothing further, Becky finds herself sunk with disappointment, wanting her to talk about Jules in the way she knows Maisie spoke to Adam.

‘No gossip?’

‘Everything was supervised and very safe.’ I’m a nag, thinks Becky. I’m the not-fun parent with conditions and rules attached to everything. Of course she doesn’t want to talk to me about fun stuff.

They sit down and cut the white iced celebration cake.

‘Tell me,’ says Maisie, ‘was it that flamenco top I lent you that got your deal done? Was it the nice little ruffle over a highlighted, sparkling décolletage that reeled in that actress and director? Were they like, that woman has got serious taste?’ She laughs, picks up her fork and stabs the cake. ‘Seriously though, massively pleased for you, Mum.’

‘Thanks, my darling.’