I check the open-plan living room and kitchen first, then go into his room. He follows me, getting in the way. It’s definitely not here, nor is it in any of his drawers or the wardrobe. He hasn’t left it in his suitcase, and it’s not in the passport holder he used when he was travelling. I check his wallet and his wash bag and pat the pockets of his jackets.

‘Amy says you were drinking,’ I say, looking under the bed. ‘Cider brandy.’

He sits down heavily, as if all the fight has left him. I give his hand a squeeze. I was going to ask him whether he’s sure he brought it, but then I wonder if that’s simply cruel. It seems as if Bethany is right, and he is slowly losing his mind. I keep looking under the bed, to hide how upset I feel. It’s one thing having a dad I remember to be angry with, now and again; it’s quite another to have a father who is slowly losing the person he once was.

I cough. ‘I’ll go and check in the other rooms.’

From my window I can see Lotte and Theo scribbling a crazy green-and-purple galaxy across the stone flags by the pool, and I bang on the window and wave at them and pull a face. They grimace grotesquely back. I look in the bathroom, and in Matt and Amy’s bedroom, and I’m just about to go into the kids’ rooms when I hear Matt’s voice. I hover outside the door. Yup, he’s talking to Sara again. He’s even laughing. Christ! I should tell Amy. I would, if I wasn’t such a wimp.

I join Luca and the children. Luca has got out a pile of textbooks, but he’s flicking through a book called The Divine Comedy, although it doesn’t look remotely funny.

‘Tell us a story,’ says Lotte, as she draws googly-eyes on a lopsided dog.

‘Who? Me?’ I say.

I glance over at Luca, feeling self-conscious. I mean, he’s a child psychologist, a man who’s been part of these kids’ lives, literally for years; a guy who’s studying for a master’s at one of the top universities in the country in his second language, whilst I haven’t even managed to go to college.

‘Once upon a time,’ I begin. Fuck knows what comes next. I look at the amorphous collection of space-ponies and alien anthropoids they’ve scrawled over the terrace next to the perfect blue of the pool, but find no inspiration there. I consider telling them the plot of Blade Runner, but that might be a step too far; Luca could dob me in, for unsuitable tale-telling.

‘I’m going to make the coffee,’ says Luca, stretching.