One prison interview, two home visits, three office appointments, and a message from Macdowall later (he’d arrived at reception at the office at 9.16 a.m., late bus, where was she? could she pls call?), and Mary was pouring a kitchen Sangiovese (extra, extra large) and putting on her ‘I’m Home!’ playlist. One of her dad’s faves, ‘Rock My Soul in the Bosom of Abraham’, compelled her to pour another (which meant she had to empty the first), grab the egg whisk, and sing into the ceiling-to-floor mirror opposite the kitchen window. There were a lot of mirrors in Mary’s house – one in each room, at least – but this one was her favourite at this time of day. The immensity of it made her little, and Mary yearned to shop in the petite section. She lifted her shirt and considered her torso: slim yes, but no jutting hipbones, a thing she’d had once during a very unhappy period and wanted again. She’d stop eating altogether for a bit, up the sit-ups. Yeah.

Empty nest, schmempty nest. Mary could now drink on a Tuesday if she liked, although she’d always liked. She’d already turned some of the hall into a gym; had rented a rowing machine and tried to assemble a gaggle of weights (they were too heavy). With Jack now gone, she could sew Roman blinds in the sewing area, which was now taking up a fifth of his room – maybe she’d do that after she binge-rewatched Project Runway and learned how to sew. And then, in between the satisfying sewing of seams, she might choose to meditate using the app she’d downloaded and the mat she got on Amazon and placed under the living-room window. But first: a joint.

After the Afghan Kush her mate Johnny dropped round every Monday – which, for the first time ever, she smoked with the window closed, not at all worried about kids or smell or cancer – Mary opened all the windows in the house, brushed her teeth, and checked the time.

6.05 p.m. Too early to ring Roddie.