She had briefly embraced Ash, too, whose eyes were full of sympathy as he grabbed his leather satchel and left the two of them together. Now they were on the sofa, both clutching mugs of tea, Bash’s small chubby hand resting on Connie’s knee, showing her a wind-up robot he’d got for Christmas and telling her a long and garbled tale about Robot Man’s adventures. She listened with half an ear, stroking his silky hair, her main focus on what her daughter was saying.

‘Go on, text him again, Mum. Just say you really, really need to talk now. Me and Ash have been working on him over Christmas.’

‘I can try. But you wouldn’t believe the mountain of emails, texts and messages I’ve sent – all to no avail. I’m not sure he even reads them.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m always the one labelled “stubborn” in the family, but your dad takes prizes.’

Caitlin smiled. ‘Tell me about it. But he’s had time to think.’ Frowning, she added, ‘You guys were the envy of my friends at school, you know. Sam’s dad drank, Amelia’s parents split up horribly, Maddie’s mum worked in Brussels all week … I was almost embarrassed to have such solid parents who didn’t fight and were always around.’ She gave a small laugh. ‘Just text him, Mum. Don’t over-think things. It’s Dad you’re talking about. You love each other, remember?’

Connie could detect a slight note of impatience in Caitlin’s voice. Her parents behaving like teenagers – especially after such an apparently exemplary past – was obviously taking its toll.

‘You could do it now,’ Caitlin was suggesting, holding her hand out for Connie’s mug. ‘I’ll make a fresh brew.’

It was more of an instruction than a suggestion, and she did not argue.

Caitlin was right. Devan took only an hour to respond to the message she sent this time. I’ll ring this evening, he wrote. Terse, but finally a communication. Connie was both relieved and heart-thumpingly nervous as she showed the text to her daughter.

‘You see?’ Caitlin was triumphant and, Connie thought, also very relieved.

But no amount of reassurance from her daughter made her feel confident about the impending exchange with her husband.

That evening Connie sat in the Hampstead house, waiting with a mixture of longing and dread. In the end, though, the call was a bit of a damp squib.

‘Please, can we meet?’ she asked, after a subdued greeting from her husband. ‘We really need to talk.’ She could hear the pleading in her voice, but she had put it there deliberately. He had to know how much she wanted to see him.

Devan made her wait for what seemed like a lifetime before he replied. ‘I suppose we should.’

Connie made no attempt to hide her joy. ‘Great, that’s great. Thank you. Where would be good?’

Silence.