‘Sasha! Here, let’s hang up the things. Don’t eat those chocolate reindeers; not yet anyway. I got them for the tree. I’ll put the lights on; stand back a minute.’

‘Only babies what?’

‘Nothing, Clemmie. Let’s just get this tree decorated.’

‘Daddy said he was going to do it with us.’

‘I know. But he had to go to his agent’s Christmas party. We’ll leave the fairy for him to put on the top. Aggie, don’t you dare put that in your mouth.’

‘Only babies what?’

‘Sasha …’

‘Believe –’

‘I’m warning you …’

‘She asked me. You always tell me never to –’

‘Stop now. Put this on the tree. Aggie, stop that at once. Look, let’s do it together. Oh shit, now look, it’s everywhere. It’s like there’s been an explosion in a tinsel factory.’

‘Believe in Father Christmas, stupid,’ cooed Sasha to Clemmie.

‘What!’

‘Now listen to me – oh, you’re stepping on the glass bauble, Aggie. Shit. You’re going to pull the whole bloody tree down.’

‘You shouldn’t swear in front of us like that. It’s rude.’ Sasha pursed her lips primly.

‘God, who’s the parent here?’

‘Mummy, there is a Father Christmas, isn’t there?’

‘Of course, honey. Sasha’s just joking. Aren’t you, Sasha?’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘Be quiet.’ Irene grabbed Sasha by her forearm and leant down to her. ‘Do you hear me? Don’t be so mean.’

‘Ow, you’re hurting me, you’re hurting my arm.’

‘Who leaves us presents, then?’

‘I’m hardly touching you, Sasha.’

‘You’re hurting me,’ Sasha repeated coldly and Irene suddenly noticed she had a little smudge of blue eye shadow on her translucent eyelids. Then: ‘Daddy. I want my daddy.’

‘Who wants me?’ Adrian, flushed with cold and drink, banged the door shut and swung Sasha into his arms, and she put her silky head against his cheek, smug as a cat.

‘She was hurting me, Daddy.’

‘Is there a Father Christmas? There is, isn’t there?’ Clemmie tugged at his thick coat. ‘Tell her. He eats the mince pies we leave out.’

‘Lift me up too.’ Aggie got hold of Adrian round one leg and hung on like a koala bear. Adrian stood like a ungainly totem pole, wrapped round with children.

‘Is everything all right here?’ he asked Irene.

‘I hate fucking Christmas.’

‘Mummy! No!’

Irene looked at the crumpling, dissolving faces of her children. ‘No, of course. Sorry. I’m just being stupid. I’m going to go up for a bath and when I come down I’ll be cheerful again.’ She stretched a smile over her face. ‘OK?’

‘You don’t hate Christmas, do you? You love it.’

‘Of course, I love it really.’ She laid a hand on Sasha’s head. ‘Absolutely love it,’ she repeated vigorously.

‘Cross you heart and hope to die?’ said Clem.

‘If you insist.’