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A week later, I woke up to voices downstairs and the bed next to me empty. So was the cot, which made me sit up in my normal state of absolute fear.

Irrational, I knew. Because there was no need to fear anything. Not in this house. Instead, I took the dressing gown off the floor, the same old one I’d owned for years, apart from that these days it was clean and tidy and only worn in the mornings.

I got dressed these days. Crisp shirts and ties to go with my pressed slacks.

My butler saw to that. The thought made me laugh. He was no butler. But he cared, and he cared for me. Like I looked after him.

“Papa!” my son said, running up to me wearing only a pair of underpants. “Papa, camión de bomberos!”

“Fire engine, darling. Goodmorning!”

“Bah!” he said, my three-year-old. He was picking up Stewart’s bad habits, and I was picking up far too much Spanish. Not a bad thing, we all agreed, because there was a Spanish playgroup nearby, and the school we’d looked at yesterday was both multilingual and pleasant. Also just a short walk away, which meant I could get him there and back without too much disruption.

“Morning.”

Oh. Okay. Here I was, in my dressing gown with my three-year-old in my arms. And there, in front of me, was multi-award-winning, Oscar-nominated actor…

“Gray,” he said. “Graham Smith.”

“Oh.” I was no better than my son, stuttering out syllables as my son hit me with a fire engine.

“Phinney, no,” I said, trying to shake hands and look half compos mentis at the same time. Truth was, I was barely lucid, despite Stewart taking Phinney off me and handing me a cup of tea. Like this was how we lived now.

“Gray popped over to say hi. He just flew in this morning. I went and picked him up. Phinney was up, so I brought him along.” Stewart looked guilty just saying that, like he’d somehow overstepped when he’d done nothing of the sort. If anything, I had, taking him away from hisown family. Taking for granted that instead of a leisurely morning in his own bed, he would simply be here to feed my children breakfast and make me tea. Take my son out for morning runs in the car.

It was just gone six. God help us all.

“It’s really nice to meet you,” he said, this Gray person, who was apparently Stewart’s son-in-law and was standing there looking like he’d just stepped off a red carpet…and grinning at me as I gulped air and tried to find suitable words to accompany meeting celebrities whilst barefoot, wearing nothing but a dressing gown.

“It’s okay. I get this a lot,” he said. “I promise you I’m pretty normal. My kids aren’t up yet. I’m going to let them sleep in. And Reubs needs his beauty sleep, otherwise he’s a right grump. He rarely gets up before seven.”

Okay. I wasn’t taking much of that in, but…

“Shit.”

Constance, in her pyjamas. “Double shit.”

“Hi!” This…Gray person laughed. “You must be Constance.”

It usually took a lot to stun my daughter into silence, yet there she was, her hands nervously combing through herhair as she looked like she was about to burst into tears…or flee the country.

“I… Shit. I haven’t even brushed my teeth.”

“Neither have I.” He smiled. “I’ve just come off a ten-hour flight. I wouldn’t come anywhere near me if I were you.”

“You’re…” She was nervous. Not like her.

“We’ve met once before, with your mum.”

“Oh.”

“You were only little. And now, here we are.”

“Indeed,” Stewart said, and here was another cup placed gently into Constance’s hands. “Want me to drive you to school, or are you getting the Tube?”

“Yes… What?” She took a sip of tea and startled, scalding her mouth, still staring at…Gray.

“The Dieter,” came out of my mouth. I was no better than my daughter.