Given the general atmosphere in the house that morning, it didn’t seem quite the right moment to discuss plans for a birthday party involving football games among the precious plants Nico deadheaded and doctored with such care.

‘Can we talk about this another time, darling? I’ve got a lot to think about today.’

Like how I was going to cope in a family that felt like those unpredictable fountains spurting up in a random sequence, sometimes a dribble, sometimes a full blown water jet, knocking me off my feet just when I thought I was beginning to fit in.

Francesca hadn’t apologised and Nico hadn’t made her. I’d been so upset the night before, we’d just gone to bed, Nico cuddling me and telling me we’d sort it out, there’d be a solution and perhaps now she was ready to go the cemetery, she might find it easier to accept he’d married again. But this morning, with perfect bloke timing as I was struggling to do up the zip on my jeans, he’d asked me what had ‘really’ happened to the jewellery box with something a bit dodgy in his tone, as though I’d slipped it out of the cloakroom window to a waiting hoodlum. Even though I had taken it, I still felt insulted that he considered the possibility. He’d furrowed his brows and said, ‘I remember it being on your work table, then I don’t think I saw it after that. Has anyone else been up there who might have moved it?’

I couldn’t work out whether he was insinuating Sam or Mum had snaffled it, thought I’d pinched it myself or was simply trying to eliminate potential scenarios. Giving him the benefit of the doubt didn’t rush to the top of my tick list. Resentment that bloody Caitlin had caused all this trouble and it had fallen to me to cover for her did.

‘For Christ’s sake, I don’t know where it is. I put it to one side and it must have got swept up in another bag that we dumped. Why does everything that doesn’t go quite right for Francesca have to be my fault?’

There was a little pause while we both adjusted to the fact that, whatever the provocation, I’d never been openly hostile to Francesca before, always taken the grown-up line of ‘She’s had so much to cope with,’ even when her behaviour was so bratty and spoilt it was hard to focus on anything beyond it. But suddenly it seemed that if I wasn’t running along in front of the Farinellis, smoothing the ice like the sweeper in a game of curling, it wouldn’t be long before we all ended up in a huge tangle of bubbling resentment, individual agendas erupting out of their hiding places and into the daylight.

Nico stood there doing up his tie, looking knackered and done in.

I’d stomped downstairs, too livid to give a shit what Nico thought. I was tempted to run down the road and start burrowing in the skip. I entertained the idea of producing the box and all those little opera ticket stubs, love notes and menus, the evidence of Caitlin’s secret life, shoving it at him with ‘Here, look, not such a bloody perfect wife and mother after all.’

But I wanted to think I was better than that.

I hoped I was.

Francesca slammed off to school, plunging straight out into a summer downpour without a coat. Sam hugged me and skipped out of the door, oblivious to anything other than the fact that Massimo had promised him an England football shirt for his birthday. Thank God someone in the family liked us. Nico was definitely a bit off me, going to work with a subdued, ‘Back around six tonight. I’ll help you tidy up the attic.’

I put my head on the table, trying to fathom what would be the right thing. The only thought running round my brain was ‘rock, hard place’. Just as I was steeling myself to go up to the attic to see if the mess was really as bad as the chaos I’d glimpsed from the fifth rung of the ladder, the doorbell went. Through the frosted glass, I saw the outline of a raincoat that looked like a little turquoise marquee.

I threw the door open. ‘Mum! Are you okay?’

‘Thought I’d pop in on my way home. Just finished doing the early shift with Daphne.’

I frowned. ‘Daphne?’

‘Yes, the old lady who’s losing it, the doolally one who thinks the Germans are coming.’

‘Of course. Come on in. You’ve missed Sam. He’s already gone to school.’

‘I see plenty of him, it’s you that I need a photo of to remind me what you look like.’

Guilt rushed through me. ‘Sorry. It’s been a bit…’ I stopped. I couldn’t tell her how bad it really was, though sometimes I ached for the days when all three of us squashed on the couch in her flat in front of Deal or No Deal, Sam’s legs across our knees, taking it in turns to imagine what we’d do if we won the top prize.

Mum always said the same. ‘I don’t want anything, but I’d like to see you and Sam set up somewhere of your own. Just enough to know when I peg out you’ll be all right. And maybe a nice bloke for you, Mags.’

And then we’d tease her about having one foot in the grave before she was even sixty. She’d tickle Sam and although we could hear Mr Emerson shuffling across the floor upstairs and the louts kicking the bins downstairs, I was happy. I belonged.

So I couldn’t tell her now I’d achieved her dream, even without Noel Edmonds’ help, it wasn’t all that. I was finding it hard to meet her eye. Mum had perfected the ‘nowhere to hide’ stare.

‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’ She didn’t take off her coat or march in and bung on the kettle like she normally would.

‘Are you keeping your coat on?’

‘Didn’t dare take it off in case I made the place look untidy,’ she said.

‘Don’t be silly. Give it here.’

I grabbed her coat and bustled her through to the kitchen. She looked around, her gaze settling on the new coffee machine in the corner. Nico had bought it, an all-singing, all-dancing, grind your own beans chrome monster: ‘Sold a couple of those deluxe summer houses this week and a couple of ride-on lawnmowers, so I’m having a little celebration.’ I knew it had cost nearly as much as the rent on Mum’s flat for a month. And while she wouldn’t know the prices of gadgets designed to ‘make coffee just like the Italians do’, she wasn’t stupid either.

I forced a laugh. ‘Yep, that’s Nico’s new toy. You know what a fusspot he is about his coffee. Do you want to try some?’

‘If you’ve got time.’

My shoulders sagged. ‘I’ve always got time for you, Mum.’

My eyes started to prickle. Mum usually breezed in, full of stories about the people she looked after, but today she seemed out of sorts. With hook and eye carnage upstairs, Nico barely speaking, never mind Francesca, Mum huffing and puffing might just about finish me off.

‘I’m sorry I haven’t been round. It’s been a bit full on here, sorting out the workshop and getting the business up and running again.’

Mum brightened. ‘Is it finished? Can I see it?’

I switched on the coffee grinder to give me a second to think. ‘It’s nearly there. I’ll invite you round for the great unveiling.’

Mum would have known how to get Francesca onside, even in the face of the disappearing keepsake saga. She always had the right word for everyone. Even the hard-nut hoodies on the estate stepped back to let her pass, elbowed each other out of the way and curbed the worst of their language when Mum went striding by with her cheery ‘Hello, my lovelies’ as though they were all dolled up in Scout uniform, offering to pick up litter and wash cars.

But as her only daughter, the single receptacle of all her modest dreams and ambitions, I couldn’t make myself utter the words, ‘This marriage lark is not all it’s cracked up to be.’ I didn’t even want to admit to myself that Francesca hated me so much she’d deliberately ruined something really precious to me.

I finished making the coffee, watching her resist the temptation to look at the bottom of the mug to see what make it was. I smiled. ‘Have you had a car boot sale lately?’

Mum clapped her hands. ‘You know that funny little stool that was in the corner of the lounge with the plant on it? Some old boy bought it for fifteen quid last Saturday. Gave half of it to Sam towards a new pair of goalie gloves.’

‘You didn’t need to do that. You should be treating yourself.’

Mum looked at me over her coffee cup. ‘I want to treat him. He’s still my grandson, you know.’

I’d never known Mum prickly like this. ‘Mum, no one’s saying otherwise. Have I done something to upset you?’

With that, her face, which even when she was miserable still had an air of waiting to catch a thread of fun, crumpled into tears. I hadn’t seem Mum cry since our snappy old Jack Russell was put down about ten years earlier. I hated to think Sam and I were the cause of it. She fumbled in her sleeve for a tissue, which I recognised as one of her haul of the serviettes she snaffled every time she took Sam to McDonald’s.