‘I didn’t touch it.’ Denny spooned cereal into his mouth. ‘I wouldn’t touch your skanky stuff with a bargepole.’

‘I used it,’ said Sasha, and her daughter let out a deafening scream. ‘Mine isn’t working. I must have put it in my bedside drawer by mistake. I’m sorry, Angel.’

‘Don’t touch my things!’ Her daughter’s voice lifted shrilly over a burst of automatic gunfire on the television. ‘Don’t. Touch. My. Stuff.’

‘Don’t be a bitch all your life.’ Denny favoured his sister with a charming smile. ‘Take a day off.’

‘I’m going to be late for school!’

‘I did try to tell you.’

Sasha watched Angel run around banging cupboard doors, shouting where’s the milk, where’s the cereal, not the one with the berries, I hate the berries, the other cereal, the one I like, where is it? Denny had hidden the Special-K box at his feet and Sasha picked it up and placed it on the counter, and her daughter poured some into a bowl.

‘Careful, Angel.’ Denny smirked. ‘You look like you’re putting on weight.’

His sister fretted endlessly about her spoon shape, her thick tummy and wide hips, and reared away from the bowl as if it was a spitting cobra. ‘I’m not hungry!’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Sasha glared at her son and mouthed the words: not helping! ‘You need to eat breakfast.’

Angel stormed to the door. ‘I’ll get some at school.’

‘I should give you a telling-off for being so mean to your sister, Denny, but because you’re at a difficult age, trapped in that terrible limbo between being my beautiful little boy and a moody, surly teenager, I’m going to let you off this time… on one condition.’

‘Yeah?’ he said warily. ‘And what’s that?’

She held out her arms. ‘Give your old mum a cuddle.’

He grimaced. ‘No chance.’

‘You give me a cuddle,’ she commanded. ‘Right now!’

‘Mum!’ Angel called from the hallway. ‘Dad’s in the living room being weird – again!’

‘I’ve got to go.’ Sasha leaned in to kiss the top of her son’s head. ‘You’re a good boy, despite all the evidence to the contrary. I’ll get back early tonight, I promise.’

Denny cringed beneath her touch. ‘Whatever.’

In the hallway, Sasha pulled on her jacket, and swerved into the living room. ‘Kev, are you going to be – what are you doing?’

He was standing behind the curtain, peeking out. ‘I’m looking out the window. Can’t a man look out his own window?’

‘You’re not, though, are you? You’re spying.’

‘Yeah.’ He didn’t take his eyes off the street. ‘That too.’

‘Those ironed shirts are in the wardro… Kev, are you listening to me?’

He didn’t turn. ‘Look at this.’

‘I’ve got to go. I’m late for work.’