‘What? But you and Ian agreed –’

‘I know. But they said they needed a big name or it wouldn’t fly. Ian fought for me, but they had him over a barrel.’

‘Oh, Jake.’

He shrugs. A rush of anger goes through her, a sharp, needling intuition: how hard did Ian really fight?

‘He said I could try out for one of the small parts, but I said no.’

‘How come?’

‘Because it would be humiliating!’ he cries, roused to anger. ‘Everyone knows that part was meant for me!’

‘Why don’t you think it over? Talk to Ian –’

‘No chance.’ And then it comes out – the row they’d had. How he’d told Ian to go fuck himself. Bridges burnt. No going back.

She listens to all this, and feels a kernel of anger inside her. This side of him is new to her: the loss of temper, the shouting. What he has done is stupid and short-sighted. She wishes he could be a bit more mature.

‘I don’t know what to say,’ she tells him, holding back on offering words of comfort, like how there’ll be other parts, other chances. His childishness worries her, his petulance. She needs him to be a grown-up.

‘There’s nothing to say,’ he replies, quiet and disconsolate.

A noise above their heads draws his attention – the creak of a pipe, the sound of running water. Jake gets to his feet.

‘Where’s Matthew?’ he asks, urgency in his voice.

He leaves the room and she follows him.

He’s calling the boy’s name, and distantly, in the garden, she can hear the slam of a ball against a wall.

‘Matthew!’ Jake shouts, charging out through the French windows and striding into the grass.

Leah stays where she is, watching and listening. From the garden, she can hear the boy yelp as if in pain, Jake’s voice saying: ‘I told you not to come up here. Why don’t you listen to me?’

Upstairs, there is no sound. The tap has stopped. The pipes are still. She imagines Anton standing at the window directly above her, also watching.

Jake has the boy by the arm, draws him back to the patio, and she sees him glancing up at the windows of the house, a glance loaded with irritation and suspicion.

She’d told him about Hilary’s revelation. She’d had to. His response had been predictable. Shock. Outrage. He’d even rung Mark, demanding to know if it was true. She can still hear Jake’s side of that conversation ringing in her ears: ‘I have a kid, Mark! Are you telling me I’m bringing him under the roof of a convicted murderer?’ His anger barely controlled, trying to keep the tone civil.