‘Oh, no.’

What else was there to say? How was I supposed to react? All the blood seemed to have drained out of me. Was it really possible for me to feel sorry for Mark, after everything that had happened? And what about this other woman – this Jenny – who’d slept with him when he was still my husband and had his child, and then had gone off and married someone else?

But I did. I felt dreadful for both of them. And for the girls, too. Jenny’s daughters, the one who was Mark’s and the one who wasn’t.

‘I’m sorry,’ Elspeth said again. ‘I thought you ought to know.’

‘I’m glad you told me. Thank you.’ My mouth had gone dry.

‘Call me, if you ever want to talk about it. Or anything,’ Elspeth said, and reached out to squeeze my arm.

Suddenly Daisy cried out, and I said, ‘I have to check on her.’

‘I’ll let myself out,’ Elspeth said.

‘OK. Thanks. I’ll be in touch.’

I hurried into the living room and realised at once what was bothering Daisy: the washing-machine video had stopped because the iPad had run out of charge. I got the extension cord and plugged it in, and it came back to life. Daisy calmed down and the house was quiet, apart from the sound of somebody’s unbalanced load in their washing machine, and it was such a profound relief to have been able to soothe her that I could have cried.

She was in her favourite place, her sweet spot, kneeling on the sofa with the iPad in front of her, propped up against one of the arms. I leaned against her and put my arms around her. She didn’t resist or protest: she seemed quite happy to be embraced. I’d read that some autistic children couldn’t stand this kind of contact, but as long as Daisy wasn’t feeling agitated or upset, she seemed quite willing to accept it. She was tolerating me, maybe even indulging me, although she had no intention of being distracted from the washing machines on the screen in front of her.

I breathed in her smell. Melon-scented shampoo, strawberry soap. Her skin was so soft, so perfect. It was so good to see her content like this after the outburst in front of the supermarket… which must have had a cause, one that was terrible to her, but not one that she could communicate to me.

Not yet. But one day she might be able to.

She’d learned so much already, in her short life. Maybe not as much as others, or maybe not the same kinds of things as others, who hadn’t learned the same kinds of things as her – who else could twiddle a teaspoon as efficiently and regularly as Daisy? But the more she could explain to me, the more sense we would be able to make of each other.

How frustrating must it be, to not be able to say what was wrong or what would be right, to be dependent on the guesswork of a mostly clueless adult?