Jack had overheard. Life is awkward like that. And to do him credit, his response had been to laugh. ‘Of course I’m not good enough for you,’ he said, breathing through my hair. At the Brunton Hotel, I’d just finished performing a song about finding a new home. My reasons for moving here made me anxious, suggesting a pattern of minor chords – but the song was ultimately hopeful, the first of what might be a collection of Brunton songs. ‘You were married to the great Stephen Wharton. How can a humble ex-soldier ever compete?’ Jack had asked with mock modesty.

‘I hate that she’s like that.’

He had shushed me with a kiss. ‘But you don’t hate her. She’s your mother. I have problems with my mother too.’

Genevieve waited in the hospital cafeteria, razor-blade thin, pressing a coffee cup against red lips, another cup already emptied. She’d be quite certain she could look after this situation. Any situation. As always, if I did exactly what she wanted, Genevieve always said things would work out exactly right. ‘I don’t know why you didn’t have more children,’ she said to me once. ‘It’s not like you had a career to think about.’ I’d never spoken the words secondary infertility to her, and wasn’t about to confess to the time and money Stephen and I had spent trying, the tears shed over failed IVF attempts, how I’d become an expert at peeing on sticks. We had a lifetime of secrets between us, but I couldn’t send her away, if Caleb needed her.

‘Hello, Genevieve.’

Standing, she brushed her powdered cheek against mine and clasped my hands. She wore an enormous pearl ring, a gift from her own parents on her graduation from law school. She’d once promised it to me, when you have the same success, Phoebe. But I had decided to study art history. My graduation present was a simple string of tiny pearls, because, as Genevieve put it, academics don’t have the right lifestyle for showy jewels. When I became a primary school teacher, all I got from her was a sigh.

‘You’re not clean, Phoebe,’ she told me now.

I’m tired of being grown up, I didn’t say. I could have told her about pearls. I could have said her attitude was unexpectedly Roman – Julius Caesar restricted the wearing of pearls to the upper classes. Instead, ‘I’m worried about Caleb.’

‘That’s why I’m here. Stephen was needed in court.’

‘While Caleb’s in hospital?’

‘It’s not like he could do anything to help. He works in commercial law. I’m the defence barrister.’

‘He could see his son.’

‘Get yourself a coffee.’ Genevieve pointed at a counter where a woman in a black T-shirt was piling up cling-wrapped scones. ‘I wouldn’t consume anything with calories, if I were you. You’ve gained weight. Apparently, Caleb’s spoken to the police?’

I nodded.

‘I thought you knew better. You should have called me sooner. I understand politics. The government wants to deflect blame. An arsonist is exactly what they’d love people to get excited about. Caleb needs help.’