‘I would humbly disagree with you there,’ said Griff.

‘Dan and I are fine. We’re more than fine. We’re happy.’

‘Look, love,’ said her father, ‘you do your little counselling job, and I’m sure it must be bloody hard work, I’m not denying that, but you do it for a pittance. And that doesn’t bother you. But your bloke out there, he came from shit – worse shit than mine, apparently, which was no picnic.’

‘No, he didn’t.’

‘You think your childhood was tough?’ said Griff.

The question threw her. ‘No, of course not.’

‘Yes, you do,’ said Griff. ‘You were a late-mistake baby –’

‘I know that –’

‘Called you “Oops”.’ He laughed.

‘Yes, I know.’

‘Hello, Oops. Night-night, Oops. And you and your mother don’t get on. You’re not her type, basically. And I wasn’t around much – so poor you, right?’

‘No.’ Bea struggled to keep hold of the conversation.

‘But that husband of yours –’

‘What about him?’

‘Well, for a start, he’s mixed race – are we still allowed to say that? Whatever. It’s not a bonus, anyway. I gather his – what do they call them? His baby-father? – from what I gather, his dad did a runner, as per cliché. Care homes. God knows. But then, he manages to turn it around, doesn’t he? Squeezes enough cash out of the government to get himself educated, gets a job that might actually earn him a decent living, and – blimey! – lands himself a Hampstead Princess. Albeit one dressed like a suburban nanny.’

Bea stared at her wedding ring. When would Griff ever have even seen a suburban nanny, unless he’d screwed one.

‘But now,’ her father went on, leaning closer, ‘now, because of you, his progress has been magically fucking halted, hasn’t it?’

‘It’s not because of me,’ she said.

‘Look, you’ve got a tiny fucking flat rented out for pocket change, you’ve got your husband wandering around France like a gap-year arsehole, talking about being an artist, and the two of you are basically on the road to nowhere, and why? Because of your pride. What are you trying to prove? Use some of your money, set him up in business. If that’s too much to ask, at least, if you’re going to take time out, be civilised and take a proper holiday!’

He was close enough for her to see the sun damage, the folds in the skin of his neck.

‘You don’t know anything about Dan,’ said Bea. ‘You had one conversation with him, two years ago. You don’t remember anything about him, because you don’t want to remember, because it doesn’t fit your stereotype. He put himself through art school, before we met, and his father is white, actually, his mother is black, and he’s never been in care – I don’t even know where you got that from. And, also, I’m sorry, but there’s a difference between a counsellor and a psychotherapist – starting with four years’ training.’