Jack and Holly seemed to be breaking the rules of personal space, which made Mary tip a last drop from her plastic cup. Jack was a feminist. Why wouldn’t he be? He had no business flirting with a girl like Holly. He cooked, cleaned, did his own washing, liked his mother as much as he liked his father – maybe a little less, but everyone liked Mary a little less than Roddie, especially recently. She even had proof on Tinder that Jack was a feminist. A girl had asked him and he’d said, ‘Of course.’

Right now, his right side was touching Holly’s left side. The vixen whispered something that made him giggle, then she looked over his shoulder to smirk at Mary. Mary grabbed Jack’s arm and dragged him a few people away.

‘Any questions?’ Liam asked. ‘The young lady in blue! Can you get the mic to the lady? Thanks.’

‘Dr Macdowall, why do you think your book is so controversial?’ asked the lady in blue.

At the same time, Mary was whispering a question of her own: ‘Why did you clap?’

Jack had obviously decided no words were necessary at this juncture.

Mary repeated the question. ‘Why would you clap at him?’

‘Why not?’

‘He killed his wife.’ Mary had whispered this a little loudly.

When the crowd’s attention returned to Macdowall, Jack replied, ‘You’re an arsehole, Mum. I’m going.’

‘Please. Please do.’ Mary may have pushed him a smidgeon. She really wanted him to go. She did not, however, want Holly Macdowall to follow him.

Macdowall took his jacket off, flung it on the chair and talked to the audience as if he was cooking for them at home. Mary would have a think about how he did that and try it out in stand-up class.

‘Because I’m a murderer,’ Liam answered the lady in blue.

‘It’s cos you’re gorgeous!’ someone screeched from the back, causing a ripple of giggles and camera flashes.

‘My love for you is noisy, Liam!’ another yelled, and everyone laughed.

‘Well, thank you.’ He shifted attention to the woman who’d asked the first question. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Melanie.’

‘I think it’s striking a chord, Melanie, because…’ Liam leaned his bum against the lectern. He owned that stage; had to give him that. ‘I have been defined by one act, one minute of my life. For the other hundreds and thousands – millions – of minutes, I wasn’t killing my wife.’ He nodded to Mary; he’d obviously heard her earlier. The book fills in the minutes, makes me real, questions your view of what a murderer is, but perhaps more importantly, it changes your perception of what a man is.’

Mary failed to draw upon the decision-making skills she’d drummed into two thousand plus clients and grabbed the roaming microphone. ‘Is that wine you’re drinking?’