Since the night following Bunty’s uncomfortable probing about Rory, Isobel had tried to put that situation on hold till the end of the week, but the question about the little boy’s future, and her own and Giles’s responses to it, nagged at her like a sore tooth. She had to keep testing it out, deliberately biting on the tooth to gauge the pain factor. She wondered if Giles was doing the same, though they hadn’t spoken of it again. She knew he had a better ability to play at ostriches than she had, but both Amy and Edward would be coming home shortly, and she and Giles needed to have prepared some sort of joint statement before perspicacious Amy got in first and quizzed them on the subject. Edward was different. Though he could still look alarmed at the very mention of his Aunt Lorna, complications about the biological facts of Rory’s parentage would mean nothing to him. Indeed she thought he would be thrilled to be told he had a little brother. Despite his sixteen years, he was still at his happiest playing the imaginary games more suited to an average six-year-old, and from the start of Rory’s visit had adored having him to play with and boss around. Isobel and Giles had watched with helpless anguish over the years as all his childhood contemporaries – the children of their friends – had one by one outgrown Edward as a playmate, and though many of them were still touchingly fond of him, and often extremely good with him, they had long since ceased to be on equal terms. It had given Isobel a dreadful pang to watch Edward and Rory playing together and know that in terms of ability, the twelve years that separated them were non-existent. Strangers meeting Edward for the first time saw a cumbersome adolescent who needed to shave (though he could not yet manage to do this for himself ) but Isobel saw the vulnerable small boy she knew him still to be inside.

She had no idea where Lorna was at the moment. There had only been two picture postcards addressed to Rory by way of communication from her in over a month. Both had just had Love from Mummy scribbled on them, with no other information whatsoever. Isobel had sent a brief progress report every week and had rung the Washington number several times but so far had only managed to speak to Lorna’s ‘personal assistant’. Senator and Mrs Congleton were away travelling, she said evasively. No, she was sorry she couldn’t give out their telephone number or their addresses.

‘But I’m her sister,’ objected Isobel. ‘I’m looking after her child.’

‘I assure you that any message will be passed on,’ said the voice, ‘and I’m sure Mrs Congleton will be pleased to hear that Rory is well. I believe she has your number.’