‘We can’t eat it. I’ll make you some fairy bread.’

‘Can I feed the cake to the birds and the fairies?’

‘Okay.’

No-one would want this disaster of a cake. I couldn’t even make a cake for my son. The trolls were right. I was a bad mother—a stupid fucking bitch who deserved everything she got.

When I went into the pantry to return the jar of hundreds and thousands, I pulled another bottle of wine from the wine rack. Just one more mug to get me through.

The next thing I knew, screams were piercing the air.

Waking with a start, I leapt up from the couch.

The screams were Bella’s. Where was she?

Fuzzy eyes, fuzzy head.

Through the glass sliding door, I could see colour and movement in the garden under the tree.

Running towards the door, my foot landed on something slippery, silky. Lulu. Then I was sliding along the tiles, falling, down, down, down. My cheek smashed against the coffee table. Wet stuff around my nose. Red wine? Blood?

I staggered out to where they stood under the tree. Two adults, Marty and Deirdre, with a shape between them. Bella was sitting up, cradling her arm. Her face white with pain.

‘Shall I call an ambulance?’ Deirdre was asking.

‘No, I’ll take her in. It’ll be faster. I’ll call ahead and let them know we’re on our way.’

‘Do you want me to come?’ Deirdre offered.

They hadn’t heard me, hadn’t seen me. Then Bella glanced up and screamed again.

‘Oh my God, Lexie.’ Deirdre hurried over to take my arm. ‘You’re bleeding.’

‘Don’t worry about me. What happened, Tinker Bell? Are you hurt?’

Deirdre looked from me to Marty to Bella, a silent accusation in her eyes.

‘Sugar bug,’ Deirdre said to Bella, ‘do you want me to get one of your favourite toys to take to hospital? How about Lulu?’

Bella nodded and our gardener dashed into the house.

‘I’m sorry, Mummy,’ Bella said. ‘I was putting the cake in the tree for the fairies and the birds.’

And later, half asleep again on that same couch in our playroom, waiting for a doctor to come and look at my cheek. The smell of wine in the room. Had Deirdre noticed the wine when she’d picked up Lulu from the floor?

‘Go home, Deirdre, I’ll take them both to the hospital,’ Marty had told her.

But he’d left me behind.

A shape moving on the floor. A shape in the other chair.

Marty had left me with bodyguards. Mr Whitlaw and his dog, Napoleon.

Deirdre had sent a text the day after: I hope Bella is feeling better. Please send my love.