More time went by, with still no word from the TV producers, and soon Abby was in a flutter again because David’s sister was coming to stay, from Texas, where she lived and taught at a university. I was roped in to clean out the spare room, plumping pillows and vacuuming, even though Marietta the housekeeper had already done it. When David went to get Ruth from LAX, Abby stalked through the house, pouncing on any stray toy or hair or crumb. I was afraid to put Carson down; he was at a very drooly stage and liable to leave chewed-up food on every surface. He was picking up on the tension, too, squirming and fussing in my arms. I tickled him under the chin, and was rewarded when he laughed up at me. I snuggled him to my chest, kissing the top of his head. ‘There’s a good boy. My little butterball, aren’t you? Aren’t you?’

Abby glared at me. ‘Casey, I need your help. Stop jerking around with the baby and do something, OK?’

I hefted the baby – her baby – in my arms. ‘I can put him down for a nap, but he’s fussy.’

‘Don’t be stupid. Give me him.’ As soon as she took him from me he started to cry again, his little face contorted. Abby made a noise of annoyance.

‘Put him in his room.’

‘But he’ll cry!’

‘So? Close the door.’

I carried Carson upstairs. It broke my heart to shut the door on him as he cried – he was teething, and just wanted to be held – but I had no choice. Abby was his mother, after all.

Madison was in a fever-pitch of excitement about her auntie visiting, listing the presents Ruth might bring and the adventures they would have. She had practised a tap routine, singing and dancing to ‘On the Good Ship Lollipop’, deliberately lisping some of the words to be cute. When David left in the car, she came bouncing downstairs in her favourite pink-polyester tutu, with huge puffed sleeves, her hair teased into giant ringlets. Her face was smeared with panstick and her eyes smeared in blue eyeshadow, large spots of rouge on her face. It was pageant make-up, extra thick to stand out on stage, but this was ten in the morning in the unforgiving daylight of the kitchen.

‘Did Mummy put that on?’ I asked, keeping my tone neutral.

‘I did some myself!’ She was so excited. ‘Do I look pretty, Casey?’

How to answer that? She looked terrifying. ‘I think you look pretty without make-up, Madison. Shall we wash some of it off, maybe?’

She glared at me, excitement twisting into hostility in a second, and so like her mother it chilled me. ‘You’re just jealous, that’s what Mommy says. Because you’re not as pretty as me.’