Joan quite liked him for that. Joan had always been the baddie where Claire was concerned. Now Henry could get a taste of it, and Joan could rush to his defence more firmly than she’d rush to her own. ‘Claire, he’s very welcome, but I can’t have him speaking to Henry like that.’

Claire gave an ugly laugh that made the two clear cables of snot hanging from her nose lengthen and sway. ‘Bully for you,’ she said, standing up. ‘Come on. It’s completely pointless.’

She hobbled out to the car as if she’d just survived a terrible accident, with Mark holding her shoulders. They drove off, and Joan couldn’t even see their silhouettes receding, because the back windscreen was entirely blocked by the heap of bags. She and Henry stood there on the gravel for a moment. A blackbird rustled in the hedge. Neither of them spoke. What was there to say? Claire’s behaviour, her wild emotion, was so outlandish that once it was over it seemed like a dream.

Turning back to the house, Joan saw movement: the professional couple, standing in the window of room two, staring down as if the private scene had been a form of complimentary entertainment, like the magazines beside their bed.

‘Henry,’ she said.

He didn’t answer. He was standing with his hands on his hips, looking down at the toes of his shoes.

‘Henry.’

‘I just need a minute.’

Joan felt a spot of rain on her cheek. The sky had clouded over; she would have to rescue the sheets from the line. They had a regular due that night, a quiet man, Federico, who stayed every week so he could take his mother to St Margaret’s early on Monday morning. Something to do with her lipids. Joan gathered the damp sheets and took them inside and put them in the tumble drier. Then she went upstairs and banged on the door of Room Two. There was a scuffling inside. The girl appeared in a robe, her hair loose.

‘Yes?’

‘You have to leave.’

The girl’s expression was amused, appraising. ‘I don’t think so. I think we’re booked another night.’

‘I don’t care what you’re booked. Get your stuff.’

‘Is there a problem?’

‘I don’t have to explain myself to you,’ Joan said. ‘This is my house and I don’t want either of you in it.’

The girl laughed, a hard, dismayed little laugh, then stopped. ‘I’m not paying.’

‘Not for tonight, no.’

‘Not for last night either. Is this how you run your business? It’s pathetic. You wouldn’t last a week in a city.’

‘You’ll pay for the night you stayed. I’ll charge your card.’

‘Just so you know,’ the girl hissed, ‘your other daughter’s upstairs throwing things. So you’re a fabulous mother, too.’