‘Erm … around one and a half, I’d say,’ said Poppy, as the melting fake ice cream made its way down towards her crotch. For something sugar-free, it was quite spectacularly sticky.

‘If we were somewhere a bit more private, I’d lick it off you …’

‘I’d lick it off you! I’d lick it off you!’ came an obnoxious, high-pitched chant from above. ‘Hahahahahaha!’ Hammond started banging his empty bowl on the upper deck in time to his words, laughing like some kind of possessed demon child. ‘I’d lick it off you! I’d lick it off you! I’d lick it off you!’

‘Shut up!’ hissed Damian, at which the little boy’s face turned purple as he proceeded to scream the place down. ‘Waaaaaaaaaagh! Waaaaaaaaaagh! Waaaaaaaaaagh!’

Ellie, who had been on her way back to give Poppy a cloth, turned her back on her guests and ran upstairs, panic written all over her neat little features.

‘Baby! Don’t you worry, Mommy’s coming!’

‘Don’t move an inch,’ Damian said to Poppy. ‘I’ll get you a cloth.’

‘Nice to have you to myself again,’ Poppy said to Damian, who picked up her hand and kissed it.

‘Thank fuck for their anniversary,’ he said.

They were at the Saltwater Grill, a mere ten-minute walk down the beach from Marty and Eleanor’s house, the evening after Hammond had thrown his fake ice cream all over Poppy. The previous night, Ellie had said, winsomely, over dinner, ‘I hope you don’t mind, you guys, but it’s our fifth wedding anniversary tomorrow, and we want to be alone for dinner. I can recommend some awesome places for you two to eat …’

‘Oh, God, no, that’s fine,’ Poppy had said, kicking Damian under the table. ‘We’ll be out of your hair as soon as you want us to be …’

Hammond had, despite his tender years, dominated dinner, which had been served at six p.m., and with one bottle of wine between the four of them. Neither Poppy nor Damian could remember having been so bored on holiday. Ever.

Now, though, they smiled at one another, already on their second bottle of Zinfandel. The Saltwater Grill enjoyed a superb location, right on the beach. The dunes were so high that they couldn’t actually see the sea from where they were sitting, on the wooden deck, but there was a lovely relaxed air to the place. A reggae band was playing just to their left, they could hear the waves crashing against the shore and the smell of ozone filled their nostrils.

It was extraordinarily WASP-y though. Everywhere you looked were preppies dressed in expensive casualwear from Lacoste, J.Crew and L.L.Bean. They all had very straight teeth and exceptionally shiny hair. Just as Damian was reflecting that his was the only dark face for miles around, a couple of young guys – student jocks, by the look of them, both strapping and blond, approached their table, laughing and nudging one another.

‘Are you Poppy Wallace?’

Poppy looked at Damian nervously. Oh, for fuck’s sake, this wasn’t going to help matters tonight. But, as the pro she was, she smiled up at them.