All morning James rampaged through the house shouting and cursing until he wore himself out, just like his three-year-old son on a bad day. He yelled at me about the torn-up carpet for ten minutes until I quietly explained why I’d done it. Then he slunk off to the studio and slammed the door.

After school I took the children to the playground behind the church and then to The Copper Kettle for cheese-on-toast and lemonade for tea. I watched the little bubbles crowd round the glass that Effie held, and I craved peace for them; for their innocence. I listened to the women behind the counter moan about the Poles in Witney taking over their clientele.

‘Bloody foreign muck,’ one said, and I looked at her thinning crown, her baby-pink scalp, as she wiped the table next to her and I tried not to despise her fear.

I was sure people were staring at us as I watched the children laugh on the climbing-frame, screeching down the slides. People who didn’t know us were busy making judgements, and I thought that I wanted to leave this place now, this place that had never welcomed me. All I wanted – as was my habit, my oldest trick – all I wanted was to fly.

Later James was calmer. He’d spoken to his solicitor; Liam was coming up tomorrow.

‘I’m sorry,’ he apologised. ‘I’m just under a lot of stress.’

I said of course I knew how hideous it must be, and I understood – but actually I didn’t. I concentrated on the children because I didn’t know what else to do.

As darkness fell, Helen Kelsey arrived on the doorstep with a basket full of charity, but I didn’t let her in. I watched her from the upstairs window; I knew she had only come to delve and then impart the gossip to the village. I was quite simply done with being nice for the sake of it.

‘Rose,’ I could hear James calling me as I turned away from the window and drew the curtains, ‘have you got a number for Hadi Kattan?’

My heart thumped painfully. ‘Why?’

‘I need to speak to him now.’

‘Why?’

‘Have you got a number or not? The one I’ve got doesn’t seem to work.’

‘Somewhere, I think. But why do you need him?’ I said carefully, coming down the stairs.

‘Because the furniture guy, I’ve just remembered. He was recommended through the Kattans.’

James went through to the studio and I followed. I was shocked at the tip it had become; he had pulled every file and box and folder from the shelves. There was paper, CDs, album artwork everywhere, the floor was covered. He was never usually the tidiest man, but James was extremely house-proud when it came to the studio.