‘Partnership.’

‘For nothing, I assume,’ Cathy says. ‘One fifth of the business, in exchange for nothing.’

He hadn’t thought about that. God. So they’d be giving it away.

When will this end? When will the tendrils of it stop spreading like Frannie’s mint outside?

Something is simmering underneath every word he speaks, each breath he takes. The kind of thing that only reared its head occasionally in the past. When he was stuck in traffic and somebody pulled out in front of him. When he had five minutes to prep for a meeting and Windows started a mandatory update. Momentary rages, punches thrown. Little groans of frustration. Stroppy texts sent. This, though, is a dangerous kind of sadness, not anger, but it feels related. As though at any moment he might shout or cry, he isn’t sure which.

‘Call his bluff,’ Frannie says. She fiddles with the baby monitor in her hands, then stands and begins to clear up, like the conversation is over. Cathy looks at her curiously.

‘He’ll fucking shop us,’ Joe says. ‘He will. He will. He’ll tell Mum. He’ll tell the police.’

‘Okay,’ Cathy says, folding her hands in her lap. ‘Don’t panic.’

Joe stares at Frannie’s back as she tidies. Where’s his Frannie gone? Gentle, smiling Frannie who could always ease an atmosphere?

He tries to calm and slow his breathing. In and out. In and out. Come on. Pretend you’re operating. Pretend you’re doing something involved, and fiddly, and meditative. A simple bitch spay on a nice slim dog. The first cut, a straight, beautiful line that would heal easily. The parting of the skin, then fat, then organs. Something he could do with his eyes closed.

‘I think we should give it to him,’ Cathy says quietly. She looks at Joe, her eyes clear and glassy. ‘Don’t you?’

‘I mean – it’s the … it’s the family business,’ Joe says.

‘I don’t think we have a choice.’

‘It’s blackmail, isn’t it?’ he says. ‘Fuck him,’ he shouts. ‘Fuck everything.’ He’s so angry now. He’s so angry they spoke about it so openly, in the fucking reception. He’s so angry Evan has capitalized on it. Without any further ruminating, he reaches over and punches Frannie’s wall. A satisfying, fast strike that stings the skin across his knuckles. And then – release. His shoulders sag.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Cathy says sharply. A piece of previously neat plaster falls to the floor. They all stare at it in shock.

‘Grow up, Joe,’ Frannie says.

Cathy turns away from him, staring out of Frannie’s window and so too does Joe, looking at the endless rain, at the spreading weeds. The thing is, he thinks, staring at it, weeds don’t stop growing because you constrain one part of them. It’s too late, it’s too late. It’s out there now. He could cry about it, now that the anger has left him, looking at those little wet green leaves, spreading because it’s the only thing they know how to do. The natural thing. The thing they were always going to do. The inevitability of it.