Of course it is, I assure him.

I drop off the children at school, both of whom barely spoke on the way, and hoping that Ludo is so far untraumatised by his stay with us. He shouldn’t be. For breakfast he requested toast and Nutella, giving me a challenging stare when I caught him dipping a knife into the jar and licking it. Still, he didn’t sever his tongue, so no harm done. And now, my spirits lift further as I drive to work, remembering that Rose flies to Beijing this morning for the start of an extensive tour of our Chinese customers, which will keep her out of my hair for two weeks. So, any further ambassadorial conversations will have to wait.

Later, as I collect Izzy and Ludo from after-school club, Tim texts again to say that Chrissie still doesn’t feel ready to be left at the hospital without him. So he’ll be staying with her for a second night, parked in a chair at her bedside, and Ludo will remain with us.

Absolutely no problem at all, I assure him when he pops home, briefly, to see his son, and tries to show him photos of the baby (I try to compensate for Ludo’s lack of interest by gushing madly over the blurry shots). And it really isn’t a bother. After all, Ludo’s grandparents are back from holiday tomorrow night, and surely Tim will be released by then anyway.

We have spaghetti for dinner, one of the few savoury meals that Ludo appears to regard as acceptable. While I’m knocking it together, he hoists himself up onto the kitchen table and is now sitting there, cross-legged, scratching at his white-blond hair and surveying Izzy and me like a little emperor.

‘Would you mind taking your shoes off, please?’ I ask.

‘Why?’ Ludo frowns.

Because this is my house and my rules. ‘Well, your shoes have been on the ground, and we eat off this table.’ I smile pleasantly. Surely that’s a reasonable request?

He stares at me, radiating defiance. Maybe he’s allowed to sit on the table with his shoes on at home. If he wanted to do a crap on it, would that be allowed too?

‘Please take your shoes off,’ Izzy says, like a prim teacher. I’m trying to act casual, stirring the tomato sauce as he slooooowly peels off one shoe, during which several new stress lines have etched into my forehead. He tosses it onto the floor with a thwack, and I scald myself as I’m draining their pasta.

‘Ow!’

‘Are you all right, Mum?’ Izzy asks, alarmed.

‘Yes, I’m fine love,’ I say, teeth gritted as I hold my wrist under the cold tap and Ludo’s second shoe slams to the floor.

Only twenty-four hours till Tim’s parents get back, I remind myself later as I turn out their bedroom lights.

Wednesday, August 21