Hope this doesn’t wake you. I don’t suppose you found the photos, did you? The journalist is threatening to pull the story if we don’t get them to him soon. Some crap about his work schedule and deadlines. Want me to come and help you look?

Liz. 7.10 a.m.:

Don’t suppose I could borrow your sonic screwdriver again, could I? I’ve got blisters on my blisters from trying to put together a bastard flat pack bookcase.

Stephen. 7.15 a.m.:

Claire, there’s a reason I said what I did. We need to talk. Give me a ring please. S.

The text from Stephen makes me feel twitchy. I still haven’t told Mark what happened when I went back to work. I keep meaning to, but I can’t find the right moment. Our relationship is so fragile I’m loath to bring up anything that could cause another argument.

I tap out my replies to Mum and Liz:

Hi Mum, I had a look the other day but I can’t find it. Will another photo do? We’ve got lots of the two of them playing in the garden or on holiday. X

Course you can, Liz. It’s in the garage somewhere. Are you still on lates? I’ll drop it round in a bit if so.

I deliberate over Stephen’s text. Do I want to reply? No. Do I want to talk to him? No. Do I care if he sacks me and I have to find a new job? Definitely not. He’s a shit-stirrer and a troublemaker. No job is worth that.

Jake and Kira are in the kitchen. She’s in a towelling dressing gown, munching on a piece of toast, whilst he’s making the tea, already dressed for the day in his trademark uniform of scruffy jeans, sweatshirt and trainers. They remind me of me and Mark, pootling around in the kitchen of our first home, excited to have escaped from our parents’ houses, joking that we were playing at being grown-ups.

I watch from the bottom of the stairs as Kira finishes her toast and drops her plate in the sink. Jake watches as she turns on the tap, then abandons his tea-making and crosses the kitchen. He presses his body into hers and wraps his arms around her, then ducks down to kiss her on the side of the neck. She jolts in surprise and half-turns, the sweetest smile on her face, as she tilts her head to kiss him. Jake’s hands move to the neckline of her dressing gown. He eases it down over her shoulders and I catch a glimpse of a bruise or a birthmark at the top of her spine.

I take a step backwards, suddenly embarrassed to be watching such a tender, intimate moment between my son and his girlfriend.