‘Oh, my God, you’re kidding! Those are the ones I got from that roadside stall in Turkey last year, remember? They’re absolutely lethal.’

Once they’d calmed down and their mouths were smarting but no longer on fire, Devan suggested, ‘Beans on toast?’ which set them off again.

Despite the chilli assault and her sore ankle, they’d ended up making love that night. She remembered it because, without their daughter in the next room, she had relaxed and allowed herself to cry out, uninhibited, as he eventually, after a delicious hour or so, brought her to orgasm. He was a good lover. Was.

She felt a tingling wave of longing pass through her body now, at the memory. But Devan was asking her something about bay leaves and she forced herself back to the present.

Bash was a beautiful child, and not just because his doting grandmother said so. Ash, his Indian father, had given him huge dark eyes, luscious lashes straight as a die, and a head of shiny dark hair. His mother had given him her wide, full mouth and cheeky grin, his grandfather the dimple in his chin. He was sturdy and even-tempered, liking to potter around getting on with things on his own. But if you turned your back, his telescopic arms would grab anything you assumed was out of reach, and it would be gone, hoarded in some secret place, perhaps never to see the light of day again. This had been the fate of Caitlin’s passport on a recent trip to France, resulting in a tedious and very expensive visit to the British Embassy, and Ash’s mobile, lost for two days inside a Playmobile recycling truck they’d given Bash for his second birthday.

They had just finished a roast chicken lunch – with Connie’s famously crunchy roast potatoes – on Easter Sunday and were lounging around the sitting room. Bash was playing with a pile of ivory mahjong tiles from Connie’s parents’ time in Singapore after the war, as the adults discussed the timing of Caitlin and Ash’s journey back to Shoreditch.

‘I’ll give him supper and get him into his jammies before we go,’ Caitlin said, ‘so we can just transfer him when we get home.’ She gave a wry laugh. ‘It sometimes works.’ She was sitting next to her father, and now she nudged him in the ribs. ‘Stroll before we go, Dad?’

Connie saw Devan hesitate. He’d looked tired today and a bit twitchy, she thought, at being dragged from his solitary routines by the unaccustomed activity in the house. But the weekend had been a success. She was pleased that he’d made an effort for them all.

‘You go,’ he said to Caitlin. ‘My back …’

‘Poor Dad.’ She stroked his arm. ‘What are you doing about that?’

‘Oh, you know, stretches and stuff … I’ve got a sheet of exercises as long as your arm from the physio.’