After a few minutes of dozing upright I have the brilliant notion of peeling off my own clothes and getting into the bed, but as I move around the room I feel a nubble of something on the floor which, though solid initially, yields under the pressure of my foot. I kneel down and flip back the rug. It’s a dead mouse. Or the putrid, rotting remains of one. Squashed flat, its legs and paws are spreadeagled across the floorboards like a miniature hunting trophy. For an optimistic moment I wonder whether I can get away with leaving it till morning, but the revulsion factor is too high. There’s no obvious mouse-scraping utensil to hand and a quick rummage through the overnight cases produces nothing helpful. In desperation I yank open the drawer of the bedside table and finally luck out with a box whose hinged lid lends itself nicely to the task. Balancing the corpse gingerly on the lid with one hand and fumbling with the rusted catch on the window with the other, I shake the whole disgusting mess out. Then as soon as it’s safe to, I laugh, thinking of the fuss Robert would have made. ‘I mean surely it’s not unreasonable to be angry!’ I can hear him shouting. ‘Haven’t we been paying him to caretake the place? I mean, haven’t we, Alice?’

Up in the sky, the stars are out in force. Cold air blows around the room. It smells earthy and unfamiliar. Except for Emmy’s snoring, a faint puckering of air in and out, there is absolute quiet. What a miracle this silence is. No car parking outside, no slamming of doors, no heavy tread on the staircase to the bedroom, no reek of cigars or hand laid expectantly on my shoulder. Ha! We’re here, we are finally here and to hell with poor little dearly departed Mickey Mouse, to hell with Robert’s bombastic rants, because this is it, we’ve made it, and as I climb into bed, curl around my children and wait for sleep to come, I feel as smug as a cat who has taught herself to swim.

2

I’m woken by the phone ringing. ‘You sound sleepy.’

Next to me the children barely stir, their eyes half closed, like a pair of alligators lying in wait for some unsuspecting prey to disturb the surface of their watering hole.

Outside the window, night is still inky black. I fumble for the watch under my pillow. ‘Robert, it’s five in the morning!’

‘Sorry,’ he says a little sulkily. ‘I’m in Geneva, I got the time difference confused.’ There’s an awkward pause, then, ‘Look, I just wanted to know you’d arrived okay.’

‘We’re okay,’ I tell him and promise to call later.

‘Love you,’ he says, then waits a couple of barren seconds before hanging up the phone.