“Mummy, Mummy,” yelled Isa, starting to cry, ‘they’re talking about Daddy. ”It was unfortunate that Janey had left three toffee papers, and a programme for a Michael Frayn play that had been on in Bath, in the pocket. Tory was just sitting at the kitchen table, twisting a drying-up cloth, gazing unseeingly at a mountain of chopped onions. “It’s so awful.
”“How is he?” said Janey, her face brightening. I figured he’d made some kind of marriage of convenience to some dog. “Fuck off,” snarled Rupert. “All right, there’s not much I can do.
Join the newsletter to receive news, updates, new products and freebies in your inbox.