‘Well, for all he knows, we weren’t in when it happened,’ she said, in a half-whisper. ‘And the attic door could have happened on another occasion –’ She came to an abrupt halt, realizing the enormity of what they needed to explain away. ‘I guess the main thing is, the whole house isn’t ruined.’

It was definitely a bit ruined, but Ellen looked at Alexa gratefully. Alexa appeared to avoid her eye, although perhaps she was just looking at the cupboards flapping and the shelves swilling with dirty water. The sensible firemen might have made it all sound so easy: landlord, insurance, liberation from blame. But Ellen couldn’t really imagine Elias buying that this hadn’t been their fault. On one of his most recent impromptu house inspections, the man had blamed Ellen for the fact that someone was parked in front of their house so he couldn’t park there himself. She wondered if there would be an indelible tide mark across everything, grime licking at their home for ever.

As if on cue, someone rapped on their open front door.

Ellen, Jack and Alexa froze.

‘Hello!’ said a man, brightly. A stranger appeared in the kitchen doorway, wearing a North Face windbreaker, jeans and brown shoes. His hair did not appear to move when he did. He grimaced slightly when he shifted his weight and heard the squelch of his brown lace-ups on the now dark brown carpet, but he recovered quickly, his grin wide and toothy. Ellen noticed he was holding a microphone, and from his vantage point in the dim hall, he seemed delighted to see the firemen. Behind him, hovering on the threshold, a more cautious interloper was supporting a television camera on his shoulder.

‘Hello! I’m Tim Thompson, and I’m a correspondent at BBC London,’ he announced brightly to the room, the line sounding trilling and fluent.

Ellen heard Jack say, ‘Ah.’ She turned to stare at him. He hadn’t rolled his navy tracksuit bottoms up, but had simply waded in. They were now ballooning around him. He looked like a very dour clown.

‘Wow, it’s a bit soggy in here, eh?’ Tim pointed out, still smiling toothily. ‘Right. Which one of you is Jack?’

‘Him,’ Ben said, quickly indicating Jack. He seemed relieved that this, at least, was the right answer.

‘Hello, Jack!’ Tim said, about to step forward, before thinking better of it. Instead, he extended a hand tentatively – Jack was still halfway across the room in his ballooning sweatpants – and then retracted it again.

‘Hello,’ Jack muttered, finally, from somewhere inside his neck.

‘I think my producer Simran mentioned we were coming?’

‘Um, yes. I hadn’t actually replied to his message, I don’t think?’

‘Not to worry, I found you! And you’re out already! That was quick, eh?’

Ellen glared at him.