He’d filled and refilled the water jug several times over, had taken as long as anyone possibly could to detach ice cubes from a tray and find three glasses, and when he returned to the table, the brittle conversation stopped immediately. Angie smiled at him across the pretty lace cloth as he sat down—a bright smile, but her eyes above it were shining as though a film of tears lay close to the surface. Mrs Easterbrook had put the knife and fork down on the untouched food on her plate, and her face was filled with what seemed to be inexplicable, helpless pain. Seymour looked at all the beautifully prepared food on the table, poured himself a glass of water, then just sat, shoulders hunched, not knowing what to do.

I should start a conversation about the weather, he thought miserably. About houses, maybe, interior decorating. Nice place you’ve got here, Mrs Easterbrook, that sort of stuff…

‘Storm in a teacup,’ Angie said lightly, and he could tell she was making an effort to salvage things. ‘Every time I come here, it always ends in a squabble. Don’t take any notice, Seymour. You know how families carry on. It’s nothing. Mum, please don’t let’s argue, not when I brought Seymour out specially to meet you. He’s a really great kid, a real gent. We’re terrific mates, I’m going to take him to the zoo to see the butterfly house. Lots of places I’m going to take him…’

‘Seymour,’ Mrs Easterbrook said, ‘If you’ve finished lunch, dear, you might like to play out in the back garden for a little while. Do you like cats? Ours should be around somewhere out there.’