I shoved some fruit down Madison, Carson whingeing into his baby porridge, then after quickly wiping their faces I got them into the car. I had this journey down pat now, and even enjoyed it sometimes, cruising along as if driving right into the dark gold-tinged mountains around the city. I’d go to them one day. I was due some holiday. I let myself have a brief fantasy, Carson in the back, smiling sweetly and quietly, David at my side, sunglasses on, following the line of the coast. Then I felt bad about that. Maybe we’d take Madison too, if she could learn not to wet herself every day. Definitely not Abby. Abby was never present in my fantasies, and I didn’t like to dwell on what might have happened to her in my imaginary universe. Some gentle disease maybe, that carried her off, and on her deathbed she gave me her blessing, left her family in my capable hands. Or she decided to join a cult or become a nun.

Of course, it was only a fantasy, a way of filling the long, dreary days. David was almost forty and, although in good shape for his age, not exactly the hunk of my dreams, and I wouldn’t actually relish being a surrogate mother to these two. Not Madison, anyway, poor kid. But Carson – perhaps. Carson was my sweet little boy. He was being so good in the car, his eyes open and looking about him, but not making a peep, that I decided to stop for coffee after I’d dropped Madison off, Miss Oliver watching me from across the yard, reminding me I’d heard nothing further from Marietta. I’d ask her today. In the coffee shop, cool and chilled, I ordered a huge iced coffee, full of caffeine and sugar, and I drank it down with Carson on my lap, his cheek resting against my chest, arms dangling at either side of his body. Poor kid was worn out.

A woman with a fractious toddler came in, throwing a tantrum about getting her own Frappuccino. ‘I want my own, Mommy!’

‘You can’t have a whole one, it’s too big, sweetheart. Have a sip of Mommy’s.’

Cue hysterical screaming and the repeated kicking of the counter. The mother met my eyes, and I tried to convey sympathy with a smile.

‘You seem to have no trouble with yours, anyway,’ she said.

I didn’t quite get what she meant, not right away. ‘He’s no bother,’ I said.

‘Enjoy that age while it lasts.’ She flashed a smile. ‘How old is your little boy?’

That was my cue to say I was just the nanny, but as I sat there with his warm, trusting body drooped on me, I found myself saying, ‘Almost eight months. He sleeps so well.’