After school I had suggested we went in the pool again, and although Madison was not at all keen (was that strange? A five-year-old who didn’t want to swim?), I coaxed her into it, and sure enough, there were the smudged marks of fingers on her inner arms, as if someone had grabbed her and dragged her along. Her thighs too looked red, chafed almost. I didn’t know what it meant, but a fear was swelling in my stomach and I couldn’t think what to do. So I rang my mother. Not that she was much help.

‘All kids have bruises. Clumsy little twats, aren’t they?’

‘But – she wets the bed, every day. That’s not normal, is it? At her age? And they sleep a lot, both of them. Even the baby.’

I couldn’t articulate why this was a worry. Shouldn’t I have been happy that Carson was no longer waking me up every hour? Maybe he was just getting older, or settling down now he had someone actually taking care of him.

‘How old is she again?’ Jenna had blocked out all information about the Safran children. To her, my nannying post was merely a step on the way to stardom.

‘Five.’

‘You rang me all the way from the States to tell me a five-year-old kid wets herself? Grow up, Case. That’s what kids do. You were in nappies till you were four, practically.’

‘But her teacher seemed . . .’

‘Oh, teachers, what do they know? Not a mum herself, I’ll bet?’

Miss Oliver was too young to have kids, surely. ‘I don’t think so, but . . .’

‘She’s fine. Anyway, she’s not your concern. You just feed her and ferry her about, and as soon as you can, get out the door and make your fortune. Bring your old mum over to live with you!’ I was silent. This was her dream – she imagined me as a stepping stone to her own career revival. Playing beautiful older women. On my arm at award ceremonies. She really thought it was possible.

‘I have to go,’ I said, disappointed but not surprised.

‘Right. Don’t call at this time, OK? It’s office hours, you’re tying up the line.’ She still thought her agent might ring out of the blue and offer her a role, like in a fairy tale. Finally, she would be a star, the magical solution to all her problems. I pictured her there, in our living room that smelled of tobacco, her nails and hair always perfect, starving herself to a skeletal thinness just like Abby, caking her ageing face in make-up to try and hold back time. Poor Jenna.

I hung up, realising I was on my own. I couldn’t just do nothing. I wanted to tell David about the bruises. But if Madison were being hurt – if someone was doing things to her – then David and Abby were the most likely culprits.