‘How about you? All good with Heidi?’ she countered with a briskness designed to ram home the hateful impossibility of such pleasantries. Lucas was not, and never could be, a friend. He was the person with whom she had once shared, not just merry birthday breakfasts, but moments (for Esther anyway) of sublime, unparalleled physical ecstasy; the person whose tears had merged with hers over the miracle of two new-borns; whose hand she had grasped when, just pregnant with Lily and not knowing it, they had stood side by side at the graveside after his poor mother’s suicide. The grasp had been holding Lucas upright it felt like, while John, his father, swayed, dry-eyed and chisel-faced with drink across the grave. It was from that day that the full father-son estrangement had begun, and Esther had shared the pain of that too, saying she understood even when Lucas’s hardening refusal ever to refer to the situation – let alone explain it properly to their own children – had started to drive her mad.

‘Yes, all good with Heidi, thank you Esther,’ Lucas replied dryly.

‘You should have kept track of him, Lucas,’ she burst out. ‘It is your job, for eight measly weeks, to know where Dylan is.’

‘He’s an official adult – and I knew exactly where he would be.’

‘You guessed.’

‘Correctly, as it turns out. Look, when he surfaces, tell him to call, would you? And say I shall expect him back this afternoon.’

‘No. You can tell him, using this invention called a phone, for which I am still paying because of your refusal to factor it into his allowance. And before you say it, no, Dylan is not lazy, he’s desperate to earn some money – he told me, he’s been applying for bar work…’

‘Don’t start, Esther, for Christ’s sake.’

‘I am not starting, and for the record, he swotted pretty hard for those bloody exams in the end. It would be great if you could at least tell him you know that.’

‘I might wait until the results in three weeks’ time, if it’s all the same to you.’