‘I said, we could have a chat tonight, just the two of us,’ Robyn repeated. ‘Maybe ask Harry to babysit, so that we could go out somewhere for a change. Because I think we need to—’

He cut her off before she could get any further. ‘Ah. I said I’d go for a drink with Stephen – sorry,’ he said, then spotted a charger plugged in by the kettle and attached his phone with a muttered ‘At last’. And then he was hurrying out to join Harry and the kids – safety in numbers – and that seemed to be the end of the matter.

Except that later on in the evening, a good hour after John had changed his shirt and left the house in a waft of spicy aftershave, there was a knock at the front door. Robyn opened it to see – well, to see Stephen himself, of all people. Sans John. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, puzzled. ‘Is John all right?’

He seemed surprised by the question. ‘Er . . . far as I know?’ he replied cagily. ‘I was just popping round to see Dad actually, if he’s around.’

‘Right,’ said Robyn, still holding on to the door, trying to make sense of this. ‘It’s just that John said he was meeting you this evening, so . . .’

There was only the tiniest twist of alarm on Stephen’s face before his expression became smooth and guileless once more. He was a solicitor, used to thinking on his feet, trained in inscrutability. ‘Um, yeah,’ he said with a little laugh, raking a hand through his dark hair. ‘He’s in the pub with a couple of others. I just thought I’d swing by, see if Dad wanted to join us, that was all. If he’s here?’

‘Right,’ said Robyn, not believing this for a second. She knew the three Mortimer brothers had all been heartbreakers in their youth, and this deft covering for one another was no doubt a reflex response, still there, deep in their blood. The stories they must have told to unsuspecting admirers, the tales they’d no doubt woven to protect each other. And now, unless she was completely mistaken, this was happening to her. Really, Stephen? she wanted to ask, eyeballing him. But how could she quiz him without sounding like a fishwife? ‘Yes, come in, he’s in the living room,’ she managed to mumble after a few moments.

Having shown her brother-in-law inside, Robyn went and skulked in the kitchen, unable to bear the indignity of eavesdropping on whatever concocted excuse Stephen was giving Harry – Don’t let on, all right? Mum’s the word – and gripped her own fists tight, tight, tighter, as she wondered where John was and what the hell was going on. Did the rest of the family know what her husband was up to? Had she become a figure of pity amidst the Mortimers, excluded from the secret while they closed ranks against her?