In late May Adrian rang up, while the girls were with him, and asked her if he could take them away in the summer, to see Frankie’s mother.

‘But she lives in Australia now!’

‘Yes.’

‘But – you can’t take them across the other side of the world.’

‘They’d love it.’

‘You’ve talked to them about it?’

‘Well, not really talked. We mentioned it.’

‘That is so underhand.’

‘They just overheard us.’

‘Australia! You can’t be serious about this.’

‘Why? We agreed at mediation that I could have them for half the summer holidays.’

‘Yes, but I didn’t think that meant – well, I was thinking about sharing out days and things like that, not – you know, going away. Not like that. How long for?’

‘Three weeks.’

‘What! You don’t mean this. Adrian, Aggie’s only three, for God’s sake. She sometimes still wears a nappy at night. She’s hardly ever spent a night away from home …’

‘She wouldn’t be away from home – she’d be with me, her father.’

‘It’s not the same.’

‘And they’re very fond of Frankie, you know.’ He said this with sickening compassion.

‘Bah!’

‘Irene, I know it’s hard …’

‘It’s just not possible.’ Then she added, more honestly, ‘It’s not fair.’

But when the girls came home talking excitedly about kangaroos and luminous fish, Irene listened to them with a feeling of dread, and then rang Adrian up once more.

‘I’ll think about it. OK?’

‘Thank you; I knew you’d see reason …’

‘It’s got nothing to do with reason, and I’m not doing it for you, and I haven’t agreed. I said I’d think about it.’

‘OK.’

Two weeks later, Frankie booked five flights, to be paid for by herself and her mother, to Sydney, travelling out on Monday, 28 July, returning three weeks and two days later.

Dark, jittery days.

Rage spurted through Irene’s veins. She was a laboratory of smoking, bubbling, frothing, hissing phials; sick-yellow and snot-green potions. Toxic, murderous, ready to explode.

Fourteen