‘Actually,’ I said to Alistair, ‘if you don’t mind, I’d prefer it if Lucy didn’t have wine at lunch.’

Lucy looked as if I’d just slapped her. Alistair just smiled and moved on to Jake’s glass.

‘Oh? Thought you’d be all right with it.’

‘What with the children going in the pool, and the heat and dehydration it’s better if they stick to Orangina.’ And the fact that you’re checking out her Instagram account. ‘Isn’t that right, Sean?’

‘Yeah,’ he said half-heartedly.

Lucy crossed her arms, her cheeks reddening.

‘Daisy Marshall has had wine at home since she was like thirteen. Her parents don’t make a massive deal out of it.’

‘That’s their choice. But until you’re a little bit older, we decide what’s best for you.’

‘What about my choice?’

I paused long enough to take a breath, biting back my instinctive reply.

‘You get a choice when you’re an adult. Then you can do as you please.’

‘Can’t believe you sometimes.’ She scowled at me with murder in her eyes. ‘The white is barely even 10 per cent, not even strong.’

‘Une gorgée de vin pour les enfants,’ Alistair said, gesturing with his free hand. ‘A sip of wine for the children. It’s very much the done thing here in France, you know.’

‘So is eating sheep’s bollocks,’ Russ muttered.

Alistair seemed not to have heard him.

‘What we do, Kate, is we always try to encourage our children to test boundaries. Exploring boundaries can be a really powerful way to reduce conflict, improve communication, and build trust in the relationship with your—’

Lucy cut him off.

‘When did you first have a drink, Mum?’

‘In my teens.’ I shrugged. ‘But that was different.’

‘How?’

‘It wasn’t with my parents.’

‘You’re such a hypocrite!’ she said and pointed at me. ‘So it’s OK for me to have a bit of wine as long as you don’t find out?’

‘That’s not what I’m saying.’

‘We’re on holiday! In the middle of a bloody vineyard! And you’re drinking every day!’

‘Stop shouting, Lucy.’

She stood up and grabbed her glass.

‘Stop treating me like a kid!’

She pushed her chair back and stalked off, the angry slap, slap of her flip-flops receding as she descended the stone stairs to the pool.

I stood up to follow.

‘Leave her,’ Sean said quietly. ‘Let her calm down a bit first.’

‘She needs to eat something.’

‘Just give her a minute.’

He was right, of course. Lucy and I were too much alike, in too many ways, and once we got entrenched in an argument I rarely knew how to dig my way out. I was too judgemental, too black and white, too quick to switch into analytical mode – my work brain, as Sean called it – for parenting issues that required a softer approach.