‘Ah, good, he’s popping in,’ cried Sue, when the bell rang, just as they were settled with drinks. She returned a minute later, followed by Marcus and a waif-like, fuzzy-haired child in a tutu and an anorak, tugging on her father’s arm in a manner that suggested she would have preferred to stay in the street. The anorak, black and flecked with pink glitter, was hanging off her tiny shoulders like a half-shed skin and the ballet pumps on her feet, also pink, were toe-capped with dry mud.

‘Hey, everyone, this is Lola. We’re on a flying visit,’ Marcus announced genially, smiling at them all.

‘I am a fairy, but not with wings, so I can’t fly,’ Lola pointed out, rolling her eyes at her father’s dimness, and performing a half-hearted waggle with the small wand clutched in her free hand.

Sue clucked. ‘Hello, Lola, you are gorgeous, that’s for sure. Let’s get that coat off and I’ll fix you a juice.’

‘Loads of fairies don’t bother with wings,’ Esther said, while Sue poured out an orange juice that was met with a violent headshake, as was an attempt to remove the anorak.

‘Sorry. She’s tired, and buzzing with sugar,’ Marcus apologised, scooping her onto his hip. ‘We just came to say hi, really, didn’t we?’ He gave her a nuzzle, saying something in her ear that made her giggle.

‘You are a ghost,’ she cried, swivelling to look at Esther and smiling broadly enough to reveal a gaping hole that had recently played host to a front tooth.

‘I am indeed.’ Esther swung out her arms to display the full glory of the bedsheet.

‘Well, I have a magic wand, so watch out.’

‘Yeah, watch out, you.’ Marcus laughed. ‘Apologies for my own lack of razzle-dazzle, by the way.’ He tweaked the weather-beaten sheepskin jacket he was wearing, and threw a regretful look at his jeans, which had frayed hems sitting on trainers far dirtier than his daughter’s shoes. ‘Forty-eight-hour whistle-stop visits round Europe and something has to give. But I promise I’ve not forgotten the cat,’ he added hastily, pulling a guilty face at Esther. ‘Turns out eleven-year-old male tabbies are not in hot demand, but the re-homing centre keep on assuring me it will happen.’

‘It doesn’t matter. No rush. I’ll hand him on to Dimmy and Sue when I’ve had enough,’ Esther joked, earning an unreadable glance from Sue. A flurry of exchanged looks between her and Dimmy then produced the joint, shy announcement that they were eight months off expecting a baby, and had been told – because of Sue’s history – to be wary of many things, including cats.

‘Apparently they can carry this thing called toxoplasmosis,’ Sue explained meekly, once Marcus’s and Esther’s exclamations of delight had died down. ‘It can make you miscarry or do terrible things early on to the baby. Sorry.’