She flicks the lighter and I see her phone light up with three nines. She’s fucking crazy. But haven’t I been here with Frances? Pam? Christine Dearden? What choice have I got? If I agree and she burns the photos she’s got less evidence, but I’m not naïve enough to think she hasn’t got digital copies. She appears to be as capable as I am, if not more. If I don’t find a way to get the kids back, I’m in real trouble. What fucking choice have I got?

‘OK. We’ve got the family review on Tuesday; I’ll do it. I’ll take down the Facebook accounts but I can’t do anything about the Twitter or anything people have shared. Yeah?’

She stares at me. Her blonde hair is wild and snakes down her shoulders, her eyes are blazing.

‘You loved him once. You know why I’m doing this.’

I nod. Yes I do. But I also know how it ends up with men like Jack. It’s not about the woman they are with, it’s about them. Nothing anyone else can do will change them. There are certain things in life that you can’t tell someone. They have to experience it. One of them is that your children are capable of everything you are – a lesson Missy has yet to acknowledge. Another is that you can’t change someone. They have to acknowledge that they need to change, be willing to change and do the work themselves. Anything else is manipulation and facilitating. Emma takes her finger off the nine button and drops the lighter into the hole.

The flames shoot high and there is a small explosion – probably the Chanel No 5. She jumps away and closer to me and I can see she’s crying. I go to hug her, but she pushes me away.

‘Fuck off. Just fuck off.’

God, I know what place she is in. Untouchable. Brittle. Isolated. I also know that there’s not much I can do at this point to help her. She’ll go back to him and try to please him and she will until he finds someone different. The hole burns itself out and I go back into the house. Emma watches me, her face a little bit dirty from the smoke.

‘I’ll let you out the front.’

She follows me through the house, staring at the boxes. This is how you’ll end up, I want to tell her, but I don’t waste my breath. She marches to the front door, still stroppy.

‘If you don’t get those kids away from me, I’ll go to the police. I’ve got photos of you going into that woman’s shop in Uppermill. Lots of you leathered in Premier Inns with various blokes. And I’ll post them on the internet and the university intranet and see how you like it.’