‘No, wait, the kids survived, didn’t they?’ someone else said.

‘I think it’s touch and go, that’s what I read.’

‘One of them’s certainly in a coma. What’s she like, Emma?’ Emma stared at Alba, aware of a hot flush speeding up from her belly to her face. ‘I mean she was just like a normal middle-class mum who lost it, wasn’t she?’

‘Yup!’ piped up some scrawny-looking woman in the far corner whom Emma had only just noticed. ‘You know Leah Worthington has left the BBC, don’t you?’

‘I thought she’d gone back?’ someone else said, and for a moment they were all distracted by the scrawny woman. ‘I know someone who used to do the park run with the Yummy Monster’s husband. She said she was just a normal mum.’

‘She was in a book club with Amanda Lewis’s cousin.’

‘Jesus!’ someone said.

‘Mind you, I’d kill my fucking children given half a chance,’ said Alba, wiping at her plate with her finger. Several people laughed heartily. Emma caught Si’s eye momentarily, then Si looked away, like he always did.

‘Oh, Alba!’ Hattie said. Her expression was almost impossible to decipher since the surgery but her hairline moved up and down and her eyes flicked nervously from her brother to his wife.

‘I’d love to make a programme on her.’ The TV woman had refocused on Emma.

‘Constance Morrison, that’s her name,’ said the scrawny woman.

‘No, Mortensen,’ several people corrected, but they were all still looking at Emma.

‘Christ Almighty! What’s going to happen to her?’ someone else said.

Everyone was waiting for her to say something. She took a sip of her full glass of water. ‘I’m . . . I’m just her . . . psychiatrist . . .’

‘She should fucking fry, man,’ said Ken, or Blair, the battery-chicken killer, whoever he was. ‘Wait, frying’s too good for that psycho. She should be stoned.’

Emma stared at him. The flush burned on her cheeks.

‘Shut the fuck up,’ Hattie said to her boyfriend, gently slapping him on his arm. ‘Seriously though, Em, is she a monster?’

The room began to spin with their hatred.

‘Why did she do it?’

‘She’s obviously insane . . . ? What will she get?’

‘It’s no use, Emma can’t talk about work,’ Si said, coming to her rescue. ‘It’s strictly confidential. I’m not allowed to ask her anything. Every time I walk past her computer, she slams down the screen as if she’s having an affair!’

Adrian, the joker, the charmer, then took up the comedy baton and ran. ‘I mean, attempting to murder your own child is bad enough. But someone else’s! Can you imagine making that phone call to the parent?’ He mimed being on the telephone. ‘They had a lovely sleepover, superfun, lots of crisps and pop, but just one tiny little thing . . .’