The morning shift at Natural Stuff lasts from 6.30 a.m. to 4.30 p.m., and after cashing up, he joins the Saturday shoppers on the train to Richmond. Then there’s a boring twenty-minute walk back to the terrace of Victorian houses that are all much, much bigger on the inside than they appear on the outside, until he is home at The House of Colic. As he walks up the garden path (he has a garden path — how did that happen?), he sees Jerzy and Lech closing the front door, and he assumes the matey tone and mild cockney accent that is mandatory when talking to builders, even Polish ones.

‘Cze's'c! Jak si masz?’

‘Good evening, Dexter,’ says Lech, indulgently.

‘Mrs Mayhew, she is home?’ You have to change the words round like this; it’s the law.

‘Yes, she’s home.’

He lowers his voice. ‘Today, how are they?’

‘A little. . tired, I think.’

Dexter frowns and sucks in his breath jokily. ‘So — should I worry?’

‘A little, perhaps.’

‘Here.’ Dexter reaches into his inside pocket, and hands them two contraband Natural Stuff Honey-Date-Oat Bars. ‘Stolen property. Do not tell anyone, yes?’

‘Okay, Dexter.’

‘ Do widzenia.’ He steps up to the front door and takes out his key, knowing there’s a good chance that somewhere in the house someone will be crying. Sometimes it seems as if they have a rota.

Jasmine Alison Viola Mayhew is waiting in the hallway, sitting up unsteadily on the plastic dust-sheets that protect the newly stripped floorboards. Small neat, perfect features set in the centre of an oval face, she is her mother in miniature, and once more he has that feeling of intense love tempered with abject terror.

‘Hello, Jas. Sorry I’m late,’ he says, scooping her up, his hands circling her belly, holding her above his head. ‘What kind of day have you had, Jas?’

A voice from the living room. ‘I wish you wouldn’t call her that. She’s Jasmine, not Jazz.’ Sylvie lies on the dust-sheet-covered sofa, reading a magazine. ‘Jazz Mayhew is awful. Makes her sound like a saxophonist in some lesbian funkband. Jazz.’

He drapes his daughter over his shoulder and stands in the doorway. ‘Well if you’re going to name her Jasmine, she’s going to get called Jas.’

‘ Ididn’t name her, wenamed her. And I know it’s going to happen, I’m just saying I don’t like it.’

‘Fine, I’ll completely change the way I talk to my daughter.’

‘Good, I’d like that.’

He stands at the end of the sofa, glances at his watch showily, and thinks A new world record! I’ve been home, what, forty-five seconds, and already I’ve done something wrong!The remark has just the right mix of self-pity and hostility; he likes it, and is about to say it out loud, when Sylvie sits and frowns, her eyes wet, hugging her knees.

‘I’m sorry, sweetheart, I’ve had an awful day.’

‘What’s up?’

‘She doesn’t want to sleep at all. She’s been awake all day, every single minute since five this morning.’

Dexter puts one fist on his hip. ‘Well sweetheart, if you gave her the decaff, like I told you. .’ But this kind of banter doesn’t come naturally to Dexter, and Sylvie does not smile.

‘She’s been crying, and whimpering all day, it’s so hot outside, and so boring inside, with Jerzy and Lech banging away and, I don’t know, I’m just frustrated, that’s all.’ He sits, puts his arm around her and kisses her forehead. ‘I swear, if I have to walk around that bloody park again I’ll scream.’

‘Not long now.’

‘I walk round the lake and round the lake and over to the swings and round the lake again. You know the highlight of my day? I thought I’d run out of nappies. I thought I’m going to have to go to Waitrose and get some nappies, and then I found some nappies. I found four nappies and I was soexcited.’

‘Still, back to work next month.’

‘Thank God!’ She keels over, her head against his shoulder and sighs. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t go tonight.’

‘No, you’ve got to! You’ve been looking forward to it for weeks!’

‘I’m not really in the mood for it — a hen night. I’m too old for hen nights.’

‘Rubbish—’

‘And I worry—’

‘Worry about what, about me?’

‘Leaving you on your own.’

‘Well I’m thirty-five years old, Sylvie, I’ve been in a house by myself before. And anyway, I won’t be alone, I’ve got Jas to look after me. We’ll both be fine, won’t we, Jas? Min. Jasmine.’

‘You’re sure?’