‘Yes you have, and well done. What about a biscuit to celebrate? Would you mind fetching the tin? I’ve got this silly sore foot, you see… it’s on the kitchen table…’ Esther called as he bolted off, swerving nimbly round the edges of her closely packed furniture. ‘We’ll end with a couple of our duets,’ she went on cosily when he was back and they were both dipping into the tin, Billy picking out anything with chocolate on as usual, while she stuck to custard creams, three in total because it was her birthday and the hope of a slap-up brunch with Dylan had proved short-lived.

‘Hey, Mum,’ her son had greeted her sleepily, appearing mid-morning in the kitchen doorway in torn jeans and a T-shirt, pushing his fair, tousled hair off the dark ridge of his eyebrows, his voice croaky from his late night.

Still examining Chris’s roses, which had just been delivered, along with a spindly lilac orchid in a pot from her parents, Esther had spun round happily, arms wide to accept his bear hug. ‘Bad child, for not saying you were staying over.’ She breathed in his earthy scent, not minding the evidence of partying mingled into it. Alcohol, but no trace of tobacco; no one smoked any more – they couldn’t afford to, Dylan had explained dryly when she once asked about the habit among his new sixth-form college friends. ‘Dad rang and made me check you were upstairs… he is not pleased.’ Esther pulled a face, too happy at having him there to sustain any effort to be cross.

‘So, you saw my note, right? And yeah, sorry, it was kind of last minute. I’ll call Dad… but happy birthday, anyway.’ He kissed her cheek and pulled away, drifting to the fridge, tugging open the door, and scanning its contents. ‘Got any juice?’

‘Sorry, only milk. And not from the carton, please,’ Esther cried, forgetting her toe and grimacing with pain as she leapt to grab a glass from the drainer which she thrust into his hands.

‘So, what’s wrong with your leg?’ he asked at once, throwing her a frown of concern before filling and then emptying the glass in a series of swift gulps.

‘Oh, nothing. I stubbed my toe.’ Esther cast a mournful look at her feet, clad since her shower in her only pair of flip-flops.

‘Bad luck.’ Dylan absently swiped the milk moustache off his upper lip and took the glass to the sink to fill with water instead, which he sipped before setting the glass down. ‘I’ve got you a present.’ He turned to lean against the sink, looking pleased with himself.

‘You have? Not as good as last year’s, surely,’ Esther teased, remembering the mouth-wateringly delicious lemon drizzle cake, which had been conjured from a recipe off the Internet to make up for the absence of an actual gift.