‘Still, Cynth, it’s a bit OTT don’t you think? Cutting its throat with a bread knife? Not exactly tit for tat, is it?’

Cynthia could feel the anger burning away inside her and she held it in check. ‘I should have let him have the cat, I didn’t realise how much it meant to him.’

Jonny knew she was genuinely bewildered and believed that the reaction to James Junior’s antics was overboard. ‘Well, if you want my opinion, he needs a shrink now, before it’s too late.’

Cynthia laughed then. A harsh, derisory laugh. ‘Oh . . . hark at Doctor fucking Spock! What you know about kids I could write in block capitals on the back of a postage stamp. He’s nine, fucking nine and, like any nine year old, he overreacted . . .’

Jonny was laughing now, really laughing. ‘Overreacted? For fuck’s sake, Cynth, can you hear yourself? Use your loaf and let this die down. Get him help – that’s what normal people do for their kids.’

Cynthia knew that Jonny was trying to help not just her but James Junior too. But she couldn’t accept what he was saying; she felt strongly that the general consensus was way off base. He was a kid, and kids did stupid things. Somewhere deep inside her she knew she should be worried; it wasn’t because she believed it, but her common sense told her that when the opinion of the majority was against you, the chances were you were wrong. But he was a child, and children were cruel – how many times had she heard that expression? What was annoying her more than anything was that this man, who she actually loved in her own strange way, was also ridiculing her and calling into question her mothering skills. She knew she would never win any awards, but she prided herself on having the cleanest, best turned-out children anywhere.

She would not be criticised by anyone about anything – especially not where her kids were concerned. But what really rankled was Jonny talking about psychiatrists for her son, when his wife, her sister, was madder than a box of frogs. Not that she would ever point that out to him of course; she knew he blamed himself, and so he fucking should.

Celeste wandered around that big house like the Orphan of the Storm. She could barely leave the house these days, not that anyone pointed that out, of course, but there was a word for it – agoraphobia. Still, in all honesty, it made their lives easier and that suited her down to the ground. The only time Celeste left the house under her own steam was to go to Majorca and their house there, but even that was getting harder to achieve. He should leave her out there, let her enjoy the weather and the different surroundings.