You enter the kitchen, with Miles and the children, wearing an outfit that needs to be taken to the charity shop. Mustard-coloured skinny jeans. Not actually mustard, but grubby yellow. They don’t look clean. As usual, at the weekend, your feet are ensconced in your heavy Doc Marten boots, which, let’s face it, is an old-fashioned look. And you’re wearing a T-shirt that isn’t a T-shirt, but a piece of plastic. I can see your bra perfectly through it. You have very small breasts. Not a point of interest for most men. You have finished off your attire with a cardigan, too tight to button up, stretching across your back and stick-thin arms.

But, despite your strange refusal to wear make-up at the weekend, you look refreshed. Laughing and smiling at something Miles just said.

‘It’s Saturday morning. Let’s have chocolate croissants again,’ you say.

‘Yes, please,’ Ben and Harry chorus.

Miles has his arm around you. He looks at you, eyes melting like a puppy dog’s.

‘And then let’s go to Virginia Water,’ he suggests.

‘That would be lovely.’

He moves his head towards you and your lips meet. You kiss. As you pull away I see you mouth, ‘I love you.’

‘I love you,’ he mouths back.

It is so over the top, I want to vomit. Miles looks towards the window. ‘Oh I didn’t see you there, Mother.’ He pauses and smiles. ‘Good morning.’

And you, Saffron, don’t acknowledge me. My teeth clench. I am not an irrelevance. I am your husband’s mother. He wouldn’t be alive if it wasn’t for me. And neither would your children. I am the root of this family. Remember, remember, you wouldn’t even be in this beautiful house if I hadn’t given you so much money.

So, my older son has made up with you, Saffron. But not for long. Wait until he finds out about your next misdemeanour. There are only so many issues a man can deal with. Keeping my son, Saffron, is a battle you cannot win.

39

Saffron

Walking around Virginia Water. A family of four, holding hands in a line. Skipping through golden frosted autumn leaves. Stopping by the lake to take photographs. To feed the ducks. Standing beneath the ancient totem pole with its crudely painted angry faces.

‘Why are the faces staring at us, Mummy?’ Harry asks. ‘What do they want?’

‘They were painted a long time ago by a tribe of American Indians, and each face represents one of their ancestors.’

‘The top one looks like Granny when she’s in a bad mood.’