She pushed away from the dressing table and made her way downstairs in leopard print, kitten-heeled shoes, a tiny cry of rebellion that she couldn’t quell. She expected him to be in the lounge, sipping on a whiskey from a crystal glass and looking more like her father every day, but the lounge was empty.

She approached the closed study door and knocked before opening it. His chair was turned away and he swung around at the sound of the door opening.

He was sweaty and pale, his eyes wide like he was staring down an oncoming train.

“Darling, are you nearly ready?” Helen asked.

“Oh, um, is it that time already?” His hands were grappling with something under the desk. “Give me a few minutes to get ready.”

She narrowed her eyes, but closed the door behind her and stood in the hallway, unsure what to do with herself.

All dressed up and nowhere to go, as her mother would say.

She shrugged into her jacket. “Mills?” she called up the stairs. She heard her footfall almost immediately. Mills appeared on the landing, dressed in a leopard print onesie, her hair pulled into a messy bun perched on the top of her head.

“We’re going,” Helen said. “There’s leftovers in the fridge. Can you make sure Lydia gets something too?”

Mills pulled a face. “Can we order a takeaway?”

The study door opened and Hugh emerged, looking a little less sweaty but still pale and distracted, his hair Boris Johnson-esque in its unruliness.

“Right, right,” he blustered. “Ready, darling?”

“You might want to…” Helen said, then decided against it. She turned back to Mills. “Yes, you can order in a takeaway. There’s money in the jar in the kitchen.”

She ignored Hugh’s tight lips.

“Thanks, Mum.” Mills came all the way down and gave her a hug. “Have fun, Hugh. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Oh, and you might want to do something about your hair.” She disappeared into the kitchen, already on the hunt for takeout menus.

Hugh was frantically patting down his wayward hair.

“Matt, Lydia!” Helen called. Their response was slower. Matt sloped down, barefoot and wearing only baggy tracksuit bottoms, his chest bare and his face sullen. He had been like this since his argument with Diana. Barely saying a word to anyone, closing himself away in his room. Helen assumed he didn’t know Diana had been at the house earlier with Lydia.

Lydia appeared over his shoulder. In contrast, she was looking almost buoyant. She was wearing childish pyjamas, SpongeBob SquarePants frolicking across her legs, her face scrubbed clean of the make-up she had been layering on with a trowel lately.

“We’re off to dinner. Mills is ordering in takeaway if you can all agree on something.”