He assumed an expression of faux sympathy, a sad smiling mask he kept in his lawyer’s kit, with his pony-hair wig. ‘Are you hungry?’

The pub served burgers on wooden pallets with little flags denoting the flavour of their sauce. I shook my head. Stephen pretended to look at me more closely. ‘Phoebe, you’re like a wounded animal.’

The wine arrived. I poured a glass, right to the top. ‘I am wounded. Are you here to rescue me or to finish me off?’

‘I’m here to talk.’

‘You need to help Caleb. He’s making bad choices.’

Stephen tapped the table for emphasis. ‘He won’t listen to me.’

‘There must be things you can do. Other than talking. You’re a lawyer.’

Stephen stared at a young couple walking past with a pram.

‘You have to try,’ I said. ‘Maybe if you tried apologising…’

‘Apologising?’ Stephen looked mystified. ‘For what? I’ve just been living my life.’

‘Do you ever think – I don’t believe this, but do you ever wonder – he could have lit fires because he hates us? I think that’s why he did stupid things to his face.’

He touched his own lip, speculatively. ‘The reason boys do strange things is to impress girls.’

I slammed my glass down. Wine splashed over my hand. ‘Not all boys.’

Stephen’s thing was to stay very calm when I was upset. He drew a measured breath. ‘You’re asking me if I think he’s guilty.’

I hoped that wasn’t what I was asking. I’d hate myself if it was.

‘Is that what you think?’ Stephen demanded.

‘Don’t ask that. You should be on his side.’

Stephen rubbed the back of his neck. ‘The truth is, I don’t know.’

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing – and didn’t want to admit to similar doubts. ‘You don’t know?’

‘I don’t believe you know either. Could it have been us? The broken home…’

The nerve. Taking another mouthful of wine I reminded myself to be calm. ‘You and Ivy. You need to know you look stupid. Your custom-made suit and gold watch and pony-hair wig over your bald spot, your skin buckling over those ridiculous abs… married to a girl Caleb’s age. Nearly. I wanted to show you that you’re ridiculous. But not this. Not like this.’

Stephen stared through the deep, serious eyes I fell in love with long ago, knowing no better.

‘You should feel guilty,’ I said.

He cradled his face in his hands.

‘Caleb has done nothing wrong,’ I insisted. ‘If this was arson someone else did it. Maybe we should hire our own investigators…’ I let that thought fade – no one could investigate more thoroughly than me. ‘I want to talk about his sketchbook… Stephen, you aren’t listening.’

For a long moment, he was silent. I refilled my glass. ‘The police took his sketchbook,’ I reminded him.