She said nastily, ‘He just meant cheap at the price,’ and then she broke into a run, to get down the hil ahead of Tamsin, to get home first.

She found Chrissie and Amy in the kitchen, looking at pictures on Chrissie’s digital camera. The atmosphere was a bit weird and there was a teapot on the table and a jug of sad purple flowers. They both glanced up when she came in, and she was conscious of being breathless and interestingly redolent of drama. She flung her bag on the floor and her sunglasses on the table.

‘We were just,’ Chrissie said, trying to avoid a reaction to Dil y’s entrance, ‘looking at pictures of a flat I saw.’

Dil y glanced at the camera. The room it showed could have been anywhere, white and empty with a dark carpet. She said, in a rush, ‘You won’t believe—’

‘What?’

Dil y plunged her hand into her pocket and pul ed out her phone, thrusting it at her mother. Chrissie peered at it.

‘What does this mean?’

‘You look!’ Dil y shouted at Amy.

Amy bent over the phone.

‘Oh my God—’

‘ What?’ Chrissie said.

‘Oh my God,’ Amy said, ‘the shit, the shit, how could he?’ She launched herself at Dil y, wrapping her arms round her shoulders. Dil y closed her eyes.

‘Please,’ Chrissie said, ‘ what is happening?’

‘He’s dumped me!’ Dil y cried.

‘He’s—’

‘Craig has dumped Dil y!’ Amy said. ‘He hasn’t the nerve to do it to her face so he’s sent her this pathetic text!’

Chrissie stood up. She moved to put her arms round Dil y too.

‘Oh, darling—’

The front door slammed, and Tamsin appeared in the doorway.

‘Don’t you want to kil him?’ Amy demanded.

‘He’s not worth it.’

‘No, Dil , he’s not worth it, he’s not worth crying over, not for a second—’

‘I’m not crying,’ Dil y said.

Chrissie stepped back.

‘Nor you are—’

‘I want to,’ Dil y said, ‘I’m waiting to. But I’m not.’ She glanced at Tamsin. ‘Maybe it’s having such a fantastically supportive sister.’

Tamsin put her handbag down on the table. It was a habit that had driven Richie wild – ‘Put the bloody thing on the floor, where it belongs!’ – but Tamsin had always insisted that her bag sat on the table or hung on a chair.

She said, with the air of being the one person, yet again, in ful possession of themselves, ‘I am entirely supportive, Dil y, in fact I think you are wel rid of him. It’s just that, in the present circumstances, it’s more useful to focus on the positive and I had, actual y, some positive news today because my job is safe. Mr Mundy has confirmed that I’m staying.’

‘Oh good,’ Chrissie said faintly.

Amy said nothing. She let go of Dil y, just retaining her nearest hand.

Chrissie said, with slightly more energy, ‘Wel done, darling.’

Tamsin inclined her head.

Dil y glanced at Amy. She said, ‘Nothing to worry about any more, then.’

Amy gave her the smal est of winks.

Chrissie picked up the camera. She held it out. She said, half-laughing, ‘What a day!’

They al three regarded her in silence.

‘First, I may have found a flat!’

Silence.

‘Two, Tamsin has her job confirmed!’

Silence.

‘Three,’ Chrissie said, subduing her artificial y affirmative tone, ‘Dil y is freed from someone who in no way deserves her—’

The silence was more awkward this time. Chrissie glanced quickly at Amy.

‘And four—’ She paused, and then she said to Amy, ‘You tel them.’

Amy cleared her throat. She let go of Dil y’s hand. She said, ‘I’m going up to Newcastle for a few days,’ and then she stopped, abruptly, as if she had intended to say more, but had thought better of it.

Dil y caught her breath. She looked from her mother to Tamsin and back again, waiting for the explosion. Chrissie was looking at her camera.

Tamsin was looking at the floor. She turned her head slowly so that she could see Amy. Amy looked excited. Amy was excited about going to Newcastle, Chrissie was excited about a flat and Tamsin was excited about her job. As far as her family was concerned, Craig’s cowardice and betrayal registered right, right down on the scale of things that mattered just now. Out of pure unadulterated temper at her family’s failure to pay her the attention that was unquestionably her due, Dil y began to cry.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

If Margaret was restless, Dawson reacted to her by being particularly inert. He would lengthen himself along the back of the sofa in the bay window of the sitting room and sink into an especial y profound languor, only the minuscule movements of his little ears registering that he was aware of her fidgeting round him, endlessly going up and down the stairs, opening and shutting drawers in the kitchen, talking to herself as if she was the only living creature in the house. Only if it got past seven o’clock, and she seemed temporarily absorbed in some area of the house unrelated to his supper, would he lumber down from the cushions to the floor, and position himself somewhere that could not fail to remind her that she had forgotten to feed him. He was even prepared for her to fal over him, literal y, if it served his purpose.

This particular evening, seven o’clock had come and gone – gone, it seemed to Dawson, a very long time ago. Margaret had been in the sitting room, then her bedroom, then back in the sitting room, then at her computer, but nowhere near the place where Dawson’s box of special cat mix lived, alongside the little square tins of meat that Dawson would have liked every night, but which were only opened occasional y by some arbitrary timetable quite unfathomable to him. He had placed himself in her path at least three times, to no effect, and was now deciding that the last resort had been reached, the completely forbidden resort of vigorously clawing up the new carpet at a particularly vulnerable place where the top step of the stairs met the landing. Margaret shrieked. Dawson stopped clawing. He sat back on his huge haunches and regarded her with his enigmatic yel ow gaze.

‘You wretched cat!’

Dawson stared on, unblinking.

‘I’ve a lot on my mind,’ Margaret said furiously. ‘Which I realize means nothing to you, since you have so little mind to have anything on in the first place.’

Unoffended, Dawson yawned slightly, but did not move.

‘And it wouldn’t do you any harm to feed off some of that blubber for once either.’

Dawson put out a broad paw, claws half extended, towards the carpet, where shreds of wool he had already raked up lay on the smoothly vacuumed surface.

‘Al right,’ Margaret said. ‘Al right.’

He preceded her downstairs at a stately pace, his thick tail held aloft in a gesture of quiet triumph. In the kitchen, he seated himself again, in his accustomed mealtime spot, and waited. He considered a reproachful meow, and decided that it was hardly necessary. She was shaking a generous, impatient amount of his special mixture into his bowl, and it was better not to deflect her. As the bowl descended to the floor, he got to his feet, arched his back and soundlessly opened his little pink mouth.

‘There,’ Margaret said, ‘there. You fat old menace.’

Dawson bent over his dish. He sniffed the contents and then, as if affronted by something quite out of the ordinary about the deeply familiar, turned and padded out of the kitchen. Margaret let out a little cry and kicked his bowl over. Cat biscuits scattered across the floor, far more of them than it seemed possible for one smal dish to hold. Dawson appeared briefly back in the doorway, surveyed the scene, and withdrew. Margaret, using words she remembered from the men who frequented the Cabbage Patch in her childhood, went to fetch a dustpan and brush.

It took twenty minutes to sweep every last tiny biscuit, replenish Dawson’s bowl and make and drink a steadying cup of tea. On occasions like this, Margaret was relieved to live alone, thankful that there were no witnesses to either her loss of self-possession or her subjection to a cat. Scott would, of course, have laughed at her, and his laughter would have aggravated the agitation she was feeling already on account of the fact that he, Scott, had taken it upon himself to ask this child of Richie’s to Newcastle, and to assume, with a casualness no doubt typical of his generation but deeply improper to Margaret, that she, Amy, should stay with him in that unsatisfactory flat in the Clavering Building. When it had been first mooted, Margaret had felt that the plan was bold, but attractively so, with an edge of novelty to it that was very appealing. But when she had had time to consider it, to visualize how it would be to have Amy, Richie’s last child, actual y, physical y there and requiring shelter and conversation and entertainment, she was inexorably overtaken by a profound inner turbulence, a feeling of extreme anxiety and uncertainty, made worse by the fact that Scott found her reaction only funny, and said so.

Attempts to analyse her feelings seemed to lead nowhere. It was as unreasonable to react as she was reacting as it was undeniable. If there was an analogy to her present state of mind, it was how she had felt in those early days of her relationship with Richie, when they were stil at school, and later, in the first phase of his fame, when she could not see how the amount of attention he was getting from other girls and women could fail to turn his head. It hadn’t, of course; miraculously he had seemed pleased and flattered but fundamental y unaffected for years and years, so that when Chrissie came on the scene Margaret had, for months, been able to dismiss her as yet another adorer who would eventual y bounce off Richie’s focused professional commitment like a moth off a hot lampshade. There’d been no blinding flash of realization that Chrissie was different, that Chrissie meant to stay, that there was steel inside that sugared-almond exterior. It was more that, as the weeks wore on, and Richie, ever pleasant, ever sliding evasively over anything that threatened to be problematical, grew equal y ever more distant, Margaret had gradual y realized she was up against something she had never needed to face before. She had, she remembered – and long before the energy of anger kicked in – been sick with fear, simply sick with it. And fear, in a less extreme form, was exactly what she was feeling now at the prospect of having Amy Rossiter to stay in Tynemouth.