Mary Callahan doted on her granddaughter. She was a little darling. Good as gold and pretty as a picture, with a lovely nature to boot. How her Cynthia had produced something so sweet she didn’t know, but she had, and Mary prayed daily that her daughter didn’t destroy this little girl’s confidence with her constant criticisms.

Gabby sat in front of the plastic Christmas tree, her eyes glowing with happiness. She loved this house, from the garish tinsel everywhere, to the smell of cigarettes that permeated everything around her. She loved the whole ‘Nana Mary experience’. And the constant noise – the TV was always on, as was the radio in the kitchen, and the record players upstairs. It was a jumble of sounds and smells. It was always full of people, there was always laughter, and any arguments were good-natured – unlike at home. She knew her mummy liked to leave her here sometimes and she knew, somewhere deep inside herself, that her mummy left her here for all the wrong reasons. But, for Gabriella Tailor, being here was enough.

Mary Callahan followed her daughter into the kitchen, wondering why she was even asking the question she knew her daughter would resent.

‘Have you any idea how lucky you are, Cynthia? That man worships you, and he’d give you the earth on a plate if he could. Yet you still walk about with a face like a fucking wet weekend in Margate. What’s your problem?’

Cynthia gritted her teeth in annoyance. ‘Give it a rest, Mum, eh? You don’t know the half of it.’

‘Then tell me, child, maybe I can help?’ It was a plea, and they both knew it.

Cynthia was tempted to turn to her mother and throw herself into her arms. She knew that, even after everything, she would be accepted, would be enveloped in her mother’s love. But she couldn’t do it. She could never admit to anyone, let alone this woman in front of her, that she had failed. Had made a grievous mistake. Had married a man who she had never loved, for a so-called decent life and who, nowadays, she had no respect for whatsoever, let alone any kind of warmth. He had let her down badly, and she was frightened of what the future held for them.

The worst of it all was she knew her mother would think that her feelings were not justified. She thought the sun shone out of James’s arse. They all did. They thought he was a saint for putting up with her, and that rankled. They looked down on her for trying to get herself a better life, a decent life. James Tailor had promised her that, and he had reneged on his promise. At least that was how she saw it anyway. Instead she plastered a smile on her face. ‘Nothing to tell, Mum, I’m just tired that’s all.’