Connor Flynn, seated behind the desk, looked up at his little sister, thinking that the suntan suited her and noting how huge the bulge of the kid – his niece or nephew – was. She looked ready to drop, but apparently that wasn’t due to happen until around Christmas. All of which should have, would have delighted him, if only she hadn’t hooked herself up to that Adonis-like prawn Joey.

‘Give it up? Nah. Not very likely to happen,’ he said.

Aysha’s dark eyes bored into Connor’s. ‘Why not? It makes sense.’

‘Dad don’t see it that way. You know what he’s like. He loves the ring. And, be fair, he can still punch the crap out of men half his age.’

‘It’s a shame he has to spend so much time away from home.’

‘Well, he does a lot of business over in the States with the Greek lot.’

‘Mum never goes with him.’

‘So what are you saying, he shouldn’t take the best-paying jobs around, should turn the American lot down flat?’ Aysha fell silent. Connor looked up at her. His sister was like a dog with a bone on this subject. ‘He’s got to do it, Aysha,’ said Connor. ‘Mum’s OK with it, so why aren’t you?’

Aysha didn’t think that Mum was OK with it. Talking to Shauna this morning, she’d got the distinct impression that the rift she had always felt between her parents had long since become a huge yawning chasm.

‘I just worry, that’s all. He’s not young any more.’

‘He’s not old, either.’

Aysha looked at Connor in exasperation. He was so sensible, so reasonable, so bloody rational. The grown-up one who calmed things down, took the long view, never freaked out over their father getting pounded to hell in the ring. She swung her feet to the floor, stood up, stretched. Her spine crackled with tension.

‘How’s married life then?’ asked Connor.

‘Peachy,’ said Aysha, and smiled.

She loved Joey, even if their honeymoon had been a bit of a washout. She’d been suffering from morning sickness and feeling unwell and unattractively bloated, and she had to admit to herself that he hadn’t been very sympathetic. He’d complained, said it was his frigging honeymoon, and if a bloke couldn’t fuck his wife then, when could he? He had joked that maybe she was frigid. That had cut her to the quick. She certainly hadn’t ever enjoyed sex very much. So maybe he was right; maybe she was.