Caitlin cast Connie a glance, with a questioning arched eyebrow. ‘And are you doing them?’

Devan gave a short laugh. ‘Don’t you start. Your mother’s on at me day and night.’ His tone was unfairly resentful, Connie thought, given she hadn’t mentioned the exercises in weeks.

‘Well, it’s important, Dad.’

He nodded. ‘Yeah, yeah, I do know.’ He got to his feet, perhaps to prove that he could, without too much trouble. ‘You lot had better get off for that walk, if you’re going.’

For a moment he stood there, looking lost. Then he frowned. ‘By the way, has anyone seen my pen?’ He was talking about his Mont Blanc biro, sleek and black, which Connie had given him for his sixtieth as a designated crossword pen. ‘It’s always on the table, there.’ He pointed to the one at the end of the sofa where he usually sat.

Everyone looked around vaguely, and shook their heads.

‘It probably rolled off,’ Ash said, obligingly kneeling down and laying his head on the wood floor to peer under the sofa, pulling out a square of yellow Lego and – embarrassingly – an old crisp, plus a used tissue from the dusty space. But no pen.

Connie considered Ash Mistry the perfect son-in-law. Her daughter, who was a script editor, had met him at a BBC script conference. Ash, despite his high-octane job, was the calm one of the two, the most practical, Caitlin more volatile and given to bouts of anxiety that meant she spent too much time catastrophizing – mostly about ill health and accidents happening to those she loved. Ash grounded her, and Connie loved him for it.

‘Maybe you took it upstairs,’ she suggested to her husband.

But Devan was eyeing Bash, who looked up from his mahjong tiles, obviously sensing the atmosphere. ‘Bash, sweetheart, did you see Grandpa’s pen?’ Devan went over to the little boy and sat on the nearest armchair, leaning forward to bring his face close to his grandson’s. ‘Did you move my black pen somewhere?’

Bash shook his head solemnly.

‘I won’t be cross if you did,’ Devan went on, although he already sounded stern to Connie. When his grandson didn’t respond, just stared, wide-eyed, he added, ‘Maybe you were drawing with it.’

‘I wasn’t,’ Bash said, blinking his long lashes anxiously and glancing at his mother.

‘Did you hide it in one of your trucks then … just for fun? Did you?’

His tone was sharp now and Bash’s chin began to wobble, his eyes filling with tears as he backed away from his grandfather.

‘Stop it, Dad,’ Caitlin butted in. ‘You’re upsetting him. He doesn’t know where your pen is.’

Devan frowned at his daughter. ‘I was just asking. He’s got form, Caitlin. Remember the passport?’

‘I know, and I’ll check around. But don’t badger him.’