I enter the drawing room. Sonia Watson is sitting in the armchair by the fireplace. Lank hair. She needs to go to a good stylist. Wearing a calf-length A-line skirt. Not a good cut.

‘Caprice Jackson,’ I introduce myself. ‘I gather you want to see me.’

‘Do sit down,’ she suggests as if this is her house, not mine.

‘How very kind,’ I reply, trying to keep the edge out of my voice.

I sit on the sofa and cross my legs.

‘As you probably know from Saffron, we recently had an anonymous report of child abuse at this house. We have thoroughly investigated, and there is no reason to believe there is any truth in the allegation. But in conversation with the children it seems that the only adult in this house they are wary of is you.’ She pauses. ‘It’s not a problem at the moment. But I thought I’d let you know, so that you would have an opportunity to adapt your behaviour and become less confrontational with them.’

102

Miles

We’re at our favourite restaurant on the high street, Pincho. A high-end tapas bar. Exotic curved ironwork decorating the bar and the windows. Polished wooden floor and shiny polished tables. Subtle lighting. Mood music. You sit opposite me, frail and sad. Thin shoulders rounded, face almost buried in your wine glass. I lean across the table and top up your Rioja.

‘The social worker’s visit has shocked you to the core, hasn’t it?’

You grimace and shake your head slowly. ‘I can’t see how anyone could have complained about us.’ You shrug your tiny shoulders. ‘I mean, our lives revolve around our children.’ Your eyes pool with tears. ‘It’s making me paranoid. Worried someone is out to destroy our family.’

I reach for your hand and squeeze it. ‘No one is ever going to do that.’

Your plaintive eyes burn into mine. ‘I think someone is trying to.’

I take a deep breath. ‘Lots of parents have a brush with Social Care at some point.’

You bite your lip. ‘Not like this. A family like ours. A report and an inspection. It’s outrageous, and disproportionate.’ You pause. ‘I’ve spoken to friends who have rushed to casualty after an accident and been asked rather a lot of questions about how their son or daughter broke their arm. But all they did was explain to the doctor or nurse and that was the end of it. And Ben and Harry haven’t even had an accident.’

‘But this is the end of it. Our GP said the children are fine.’

‘It’s the end of it for now. But … but …’ you splutter. ‘Whoever has complained for no reason, may complain again.’ You stab at your vegan tapas. ‘I think it has something to do with your mother.’