Gaia perked up, absorbing this new narrative. ‘She’s Upsy Daisy from In the Night Garden.’

‘Is she?’ Tom said. Like me, I don’t think he had the foggiest who Upsy Daisy was. ‘And who are you meant to be, Gaia? An Oompa Loompa?’

‘No, Daddy,’ Gaia said. ‘I’m a Halloween pumpkin.’

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘A Halloween pumpkin with glasses.’

She whipped her little spectacles from her face self-consciously, only to return them once she realized she couldn’t see anything without them.

Tom’s phone rang, and he was out the door again, tramping pine needles and clods of earth in his wake.

Bath time was straightforward enough – though I did end up wearing the contents of the bath, thanks to Coco’s love of splashing – and by the time bedtime rolled around I felt like I’d been hit by a tractor. Fifteen story books and much cajoling, singing, and bribing later, and both girls finally drifted off to sleep.

I felt like I deserved a medal.

It was a relief to get to my own room, my own space, where I didn’t have to glue my eyeballs to Coco in anticipation of the moment she’d find a shard of broken glass to chew on or a window to hurl herself out of, and where I wouldn’t have to answer Gaia’s infinite stream of brain-melting questions (such as why the moon was called the moon and if people could still poo in heaven).

I took off my clothes and put on my pyjamas – it was only half past eight, but I was dog-tired – then headed to the bathroom to use the toilet and brush my teeth. Right as I was sitting on the toilet, the door creaked open. I gave a jump of fright and called out, ‘Who’s there?’

A small hand appeared around the door, and I recognized it as belonging to Gaia.

‘Can I come in?’ she said from behind the door.

‘I’m … I’m on the loo,’ I said, clutching on to my pyjama bottoms. ‘Are you all right?’

‘If I promise to close my eyes can I sit with you?’

I was thrown by the question. ‘Sit with me? You mean, on the toilet seat?’

‘On your lap,’ she said. ‘Mumma always let me sit on her lap when she was on the toilet.’

Before I could answer, Gaia made her way through the door and climbed on to my knee, right as I hoisted my pyjamas up around my waist. She said nothing, but simply sat there, as if my knee was exactly where she ought to be sitting. Then she said quietly: ‘I don’t like my bed.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Is it uncomfortable?’

She shook her head.

‘Is it … cold?’

She shook her head.

‘Are there worms in it?’

She looked up, confused. ‘Why would worms be in my bed?’

‘Well, what’s wrong with your bed, then?’

Another world-weary sigh. ‘It’s too empty.’

‘Maybe it needs more teddies in it,’ I offered. ‘Let’s go and find some, shall we?’