‘Darling, give it a rest. You’re driving everybody mad.’

The girl unstrapped her pink crash helmet, a present from Simon.

‘You could have got the electric one, Mum.’ she said. ‘I told you that was quieter, and planet-friendly. Daddy offered to go halves. But you didn’t want to spend an extra thousand pounds.’ The girl had Prisha’s large brown eyes, her dark hair cut into a short bob.

‘Well, we’ll see.’ Prisha was convinced that Deepak had spoiled their daughter from birth. Now, as a less regular visitor, he positively showered her with gifts. The trouble was that Indigo knew with some kind of primal, childish cunning exactly how to play off one parent against the other. And Simon – well – he was complete putty in her hands. Indigo generally referred to him as ‘the loser’, a phrase she must’ve picked up from classmates. If this was the result of all those fees, she might as well have sent her to a state school.

‘I’d still prefer that pony,’ Indigo said as she dismounted. ‘I’m a bit bored with this. Oh, there’s air in the fuel line again.’ She stalked past her mother into the house, with the helmet under her arm, for all the world as if she was a Formula One racing driver marching out of the pits. Prisha stared across at the ruined paddock, two acres that had once been a pear orchard. She wondered where she had gone wrong, with a child that demanded so much without a word of thanks, expecting everyone to clear up after her.

Prisha turned and walked back into the house. ‘Simon,’ she called. ‘Quad bike time. Can you check the fuel line? And hose it down before putting it in the garage.’

There was an answering call from somewhere in the lounge, where her partner was probably watching the horse racing and wasting her money again. After her daughter emerged from the shower, wrapped in a large towel, Prisha followed the child into her bedroom.

‘Darling.’

‘Mmm?’ Indigo was sitting on the bed playing with her gold iPhone.

‘Are you happy in yourself?’

The child looked up, a curl of contempt on her pink cherubic lips.

‘I don’t mean money or presents. Are you happy with who you are?’

She shrugged and turned back to her phone.

Prisha waited, but getting no further comment added. ‘Do you feel happy in your body?’

‘I’m not fat.’

‘I didn’t mean that, of course you’re not fat. You’re perfect.’ She paused again, but still hadn’t succeeded in attracting her daughter’s attention. ‘Some children these days feel they were born in the wrong body.’

This time she did look up, the twist of contempt in her mouth joined by an inflection in her dark eyebrows. ‘So we’re actually having a transgender conversation?’

Prisha was often astounded by her daughter’s precocity. ‘Not exactly.’

The child turned back to her phone. ‘I’ve got brown skin, and you’re bringing me up a Hindu. I don’t need any additional hassle, thanks all the same.’