‘Shit,’ she whispered. ‘Come on.’

She relaxed her eyes. She paid attention. The white wall ahead of her turned insubstantial and disappeared.

It was hard enough for Dan to sit there pretending to be relaxed but when Bea had gone inside Griff turned on him. It felt as if without her he was prey more easily brought down.

‘So, Dan, how’s married life?’

‘Good, yeah, thanks,’ said Dan.

‘Still an estate agent?’

‘I’m taking some time.’

‘Alex tells us you decided to quit the rat race.’

‘Just until August.’

‘Not working out for you?’

Alex got up to collect the rest of the dishes.

‘Not now,’ said Griff.

He froze.

‘Relax,’ said Liv.

He sat.

‘You should have given me a call, Dan,’ Griff said. ‘Do you know who I am?’

Dan had never heard anybody actually say that. There was no answer to it.

‘Not being funny. Don’t take this the wrong way, but what were you both thinking?’

‘Pardon?’ said Dan. He hadn’t said pardon since he was about six years old.

‘It’s not the 1960s,’ said Griff. ‘Dropping out and tuning in, or whatever the man said. Not that most people were doing that in the sixties, anyway. I certainly wasn’t. I was working two jobs. Bought my first property in 1967, famously. I mean, whose idea was it, to go farting off round Europe?’

Across the table, Alex laughed at the word farting.

‘No,’ said Griff, and Alex stopped laughing. Griff turned back to Dan. ‘How can you afford it? Have you come into some money? Last I heard, Bea was earning practically nothing, and you were at a high-street estate agent somewhere. Foundations.’

They’d met once, over two years ago, the man was in his seventies and he remembered the name of Dan’s office.

‘Foundations of Holloway,’ said Dan.

‘Holloway?’ Griff stared at him for a moment and then gave a short laugh, like a depth charge. ‘Foundations of Holloway? Priceless.’

‘Griff, don’t,’ said Liv, in a baby voice. She turned from her son, reached across the table and touched Dan’s arm. ‘Just ignore him,’ she said, ‘he’s a bully. Ignore him.’

‘Yes, ignore me,’ said Griff.

Inside, when she had recovered herself and could do it, Bea gave her attention to the next thing. She had a task. She could get food onto serving dishes, and take them from one place to another. That was easy. She levered the loose-jointed chicken from the tin and picked up the carving knife. Its blade was slender and very sharp. She put the knife next to the chicken, with some halves of lemon, and carried it out to the garden, her thumb anchoring it, for safety. Someone had turned on the lights. The group at the table were lit on one side only, in darkness on the other. As she approached, she heard her mother say, ‘You’re an artist, aren’t you, Dan?’

Alex jumped up and took the chicken from her and put it in front of his father, like an offering. Bea studied Dan, trying to hear her mother’s voice as he heard it, and see what he was thinking.