‘You can collect him later, with Dad.’

‘They’ve a puppy, you said. And donkeys.’

‘I’ve paid her to teach Blake, not babysit you.’

‘What about her other kids? You said there’s a toddler and a little girl. I could help look after them. I’m good with kids, Miss Howard told you.’

Charley helps out with the younger children in the late-stay room after lessons. She’s right, the teacher has mentioned she’s efficient for nine, very kind, especially to the youngest ones. Grace studies the hope in her daughter’s wide brown eyes. ‘I’ll put it to Eve, but she’s probably made other arrangements by now. Stay in the car when I ask, okay? I don’t want you twisting her arm.’

Charley makes a victory fist.

‘Get dressed now,’ Grace tells them both.

Martin has pulled himself upright on the sofa; he yawns, his eyes still closed.

‘We’re off in a minute. Charley’s coming with us, but don’t leave yet; I may have to drop her back with you.’

‘Wow.’ His eyes snap open, his face looks wider when he smiles. ‘The chance of a day to myself. I can go to the library. Chapter seven’s a bitch.’ He fumbles for his watch.

Writing. Code for cigarettes, coffee, reading the paper. Films in the afternoon, lunches in the pub. Her writing means chewing paper to stay awake, grinding out words, exhaustion the next day. She picks up Blake’s shirt from the floor, his scattered socks, and bundles them into the washing machine.

‘I am grateful.’ He’s watching her. ‘You do know that, don’t you?’

Gratitude is easy; it doesn’t cost much. He fell in love with her energy, but he’s using it up. She opens the giant Quality Street tin that sits on the draining board behind the kettle and takes ten pounds for parking from the deep pool of saved coins and puts them in her purse, struggling with the broken zip on her bag.

‘You jolly well should be grateful,’ she tells him. ‘My turn next.’

He smiles, the special melting smile, and kisses her; she softens, kissing him back.

‘Yuck.’ Charley looks away.

While Martin hugs the kids goodbye, Grace reaches for her red notebook from the shelf and slips it into her bag. The hotel allows thirty minutes for lunch most days, ten more if it’s quiet; useful writing time.

They wait for the lift on the narrow landing outside, Blake sighing and kicking his feet against the wall. The lift smells of vomit and piss, denser in the stairwell. The warden should organize a cleaner. Grace glimpses her sometimes, putting rubbish in the bins; a large woman with red hair and bottle glasses who rarely emerges from her ground-floor flat. She greets her politely on those occasions, receiving a grunt in reply; their warden’s the kind who seems to resent her tenants.