‘Rubbish,’ said Isabelle into her coffee. ‘You don’t pay for everything. Dad pays his share.’

‘I know exactly how much your father contributes.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Look, darling, I don’t want to get into this. Your father and I are trying to behave like civilised adults, largely for your and Ben’s sake. The financial side of things was dealt with by lawyers . . .’

‘Oh, that’s your solution to everything.’

‘And one of the main areas of discussion is how much each of us contributes to your education and upkeep.’

‘You make me sound like a farm animal.’

‘Don’t try to wind me up, Isabelle.’ Christine looked severely at her daughter – a look that could quell high court judges. ‘If you want a war of words, pick on someone your own size.’

‘Is that a threat?’

‘No, darling. Just advice.’

‘Advice! Advice! God, you just can’t stop yourself, can you?’

Isabelle stood up, pushing her chair back over the floor. It made an unpleasant scraping sound. She’d been engaged in this battle with her mother for as long as she could remember – always going through the same moves, whipping herself up into a fury while her mother remained irritatingly, glacially calm, freezing her out. Why couldn’t Christine just blow her top, say what she meant, instead of holding on to her words like a miser, saying only what would stand up in court? Andy, her father, was a hothead like her – they argued rarely, but when they did, it cleared the air, they hugged – and Isabelle usually got her way. Fighting with her mother was like fighting with a wall of solid steel.

But even as she realised how useless and pointless it all was, Isabelle could hear herself going into the next phase of the game.

‘I’m sick of this, Mum. You’re always pushing me away. It’s not my fault that you and Dad split up, but you seem to think it is.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Ever since I can remember, you’ve been like this with me.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like a fucking lawyer!’

‘There’s no need to swear, Isabelle.’

‘Do you think I came between you and Dad? Do I remind you of him too much? You don’t seem to be like this with Ben. No, Ben can do no wrong. Comes and goes as he pleases, does whatever he fancies, and does he get the third degree? No he doesn’t. It’s just me, isn’t it? Everything I do, you’re always niggling away, having a go, trying to undermine me.’

‘Excuse me, Isabelle,’ said Christine, starting to sound heated at last, ‘but it was you who barged in here and started firing off impertinent questions about my private life.’

‘Barged in? Oh that’s very nice. Into the family home.’

‘And just because I don’t choose to tell you who I see . . .’

‘You do more than see him, apparently.’

‘That does not concern you.’

‘It does.’

‘Well, that’s your opinion.’