There’s the buzz of Daddy’s lawnmower over the way. The smell of the warm wood slats of the shed. Prin lifts her arms up ready and cracks an eye open, just in time to see Jane lift up her own arms.

‘But –’ she giggles – ‘you aren’t going to really hit me!’

‘One!’

A crack, a burst of pain.

And Prin falls.

When Prin opens her eyes, Jane is crying. Really shrieking.

Mummy is bursting in through the doorway, her face a horror-show of concern. ‘What’s happened?’ she’s shouting. ‘What’s happened?’

Lying flat out on the floor, Prin puts a hand to her cheek. There is blood on her palm when she pulls it away. She wants to cry, but she doesn’t of course. Jane, though, goes on shrieking. ‘Get up!’ she’s crying. ‘Now you’re supposed to get back up!’

Now Daddy is in the doorway too. The lawnmower isn’t going any more. He takes one look at Prin and pushes past Mum to scoop her right up. Prin feels herself swung into the air and carried outside.

‘You’re fine,’ Daddy says to her as he rushes her across the lawn. ‘It’s just a tiny graze, I promise.’

As he rushes her away, Prin watches back, over his shoulder. Inside the potting shed, Jane is still crying, tears everywhere, when she isn’t even hurt. Prin is being so brave, not crying one bit, even though it feels way worse than a graze.

But Jane is crying fit to bust.

And Mum is holding her, hugging her. All the things Prin wants someone to do. Prin closes her eyes and goes limp in Daddy’s arms.

And feels the jealousy twist in her guts.

Chapter 28

Safe and sound, I tell myself. Safe and sound. But I know it can’t go on like this.

Charlie has to go to school.

I have to go to work.

There are tenants relying on me and it’s my job to help them.

And then there’s Alastair and Marianne. And Sarah.

On Monday morning, I haven’t got a choice. I lever myself off the sofa at 6 a.m., letting Charlie sleep another hour. In the kitchen, the lights feel overly bright, as though I’m moving in a stage set. I compose a text on my phone to Charlie’s teacher, telling her what happened, asking her to document any other signs she sees. I read it back – and then just delete it, not ready to face the realities yet. Instead I steady myself with order, routine. I already have Charlie’s breakfast on the table by the time I wake him up. This morning, I do everything for him: pour out his cereal, fill his glass with juice. I pack his bag without asking him anything. I don’t want to set any tests he will fail.