‘What’s his favourite story, then? What’s his favourite food? You don’t even know him,’ Craig said. His nostrils flared, his hands gripped the side of the table, his whole body seemed braced to spring into action, as if adrenalin was pumping through him by the gallon. ‘Go on, get out. We don’t want you here.’

‘Craig, wait,’ said Julia, and Frankie wanted to echo the same words. Craig, wait, you’re making this worse. Craig, wait, don’t attack her, listen to what she has to say. Craig, wait, there has to be a sensible way around this. He hated Julia, though, she realized uneasily. He really, really hated her.

‘You heard me,’ he snarled, bristling like a wild animal. ‘Kindly leave.’

Julia stuck out her chin in defiance. ‘I didn’t come here for an argument,’ she said, eyeballing him right back. Then she scribbled down her number on a piece of paper and pushed it across the table. ‘Here are my details. Ring me when you’re ready to discuss this like an adult.’ Her chin jutted. ‘But you need to know that I’ve got a solicitor. I’ve got people who will help me. And I have every right to see my son!’ Her composure suddenly crumbling, a sob swallowed up her voice. ‘Because he’s my son too, and don’t you forget it.’

She banged the table as she got to her feet, and Frankie quailed as the woman’s angry gaze swung between Craig and then her, before she slammed her way out of the flat. The silence that followed her departure seemed deafeningly loud, filling the small room. Everything in there was the same as it had been an hour ago – the cheerful yellow walls, Fergus’s paintings Blu-tacked on the doors of the cabinets, two spotty mugs upside down in the draining rack, the photos of happy days stuck on the fridge, along with a load of Thomas the Tank Engine magnets. And yet Julia’s appearance seemed to have cast a spell over the place, so that the window now looked small and grimy and Frankie couldn’t help but notice the dust balls in one corner of the floor, a teabag splash on the counter, the cupboard door that hung wonkily where the hinge had been broken for months.

Feeling as if her heart had become a gigantic painful rock, she set one of the lukewarm cappuccinos in front of Craig and sank into a chair with the other. ‘What are we going to do?’ she asked, her voice a fearful bleat. ‘What are we going to do, Craig?’

Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven