‘Oh.’

Now or never.

‘I meant about everything.’

The kitchen clock ticked. The phone rang. Christine reached out for it – it might be John with some update. Isabelle drew breath to let out one of her highly articulate sighs – but Christine switched off the telephone and put it in a drawer, buried under tea towels.

Isabelle exhaled.

‘Go on. You were saying.’

The moment had rather passed for the big blubbering confession that Isabelle had been on the verge of making. ‘Oh, you know. I’ve been such a pain in the arse recently.’

‘Recently?’

Don’t do this, Mum . . .

‘Well I’ve been so busy with work, I haven’t always had time to be . . . as nice as I might be.’

Who would have thought that this would be so difficult? ‘Now you know what it’s like, then,’ said Christine, looking her daughter straight in the eyes. ‘Sometimes, without meaning to, we let work get in the way of the things that really matter.’

‘Yes.’

‘You see? We have more in common than either of us likes to admit.’

Isabelle held her mother’s gaze. ‘So it seems.’

Isabelle’s phone rang in her pocket. She took it out, saw the name ‘Dan Parker’, and switched it off.

‘I need to talk to you about Dad.’

‘Ah.’

‘He picked me up at the airport, you know. Gave me a lift.’

‘That was thoughtful of him.’

‘At your suggestion, I presume.’

‘Well, I may have mentioned that it would be a nice gesture.’

‘You’re still speaking to him, then?’

‘I’m not sure that “speaking” is quite the word, but yes, we communicate after a fashion.’

‘I don’t know why you bother.’

‘Because he’s the father of my children.’

‘Is that the only reason?’

‘I thought not. But you were kind enough to set me right on that score.’

‘Mum, I didn’t mean to . . .’

Christine held her hand up. ‘You don’t have to say anything. I’d rather not be made a fool of a second time. I should thank you.’

‘I didn’t want you to be hurt.’

‘Really?’ Christine fiddled with her mug, running her finger around the handle. ‘Do you actually mean that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Right.’

‘I do now, anyway. Mum, I know I’ve been a bitch.’

‘Nobody calls my daughter a bitch.’

‘I’ve wanted to hurt you.’

‘Darling, you’ve succeeded.’

‘But sometimes, it seemed like . . . It was the only way I could . . .’

‘Isabelle, please don’t say it was the only way you could get my attention. I’ve heard that one in court too many times. Why did you take all those drugs, Mr Bloggs? Why did you feel the need to burn down the house? Why did you beat your wife up? “Because I wanted attention.” That doesn’t really wash after you’re about six years old.’