Jack nods, looking thrilled.

Bloody, and his brother in trouble again: it's all too perfect.

Trevor stays in the sea, but Archie comes back, with soaking-wet trouser legs.

'That's very silly, Archie.'

'I know, sorry.'

'Stand still while I get your socks off.'

I'm drying him in the beach hut when Martin finally gets Trevor back on the lead.

I think he's trying to look stern.

'Bad dog. Very bad dog.' Trevor's licking his hand. 'Sorry, Jo. And you promised, Archie; you told me you wouldn't go in the sea again.'

'I know, Martin, and I'm very sorry. Double sorry. But sometimes I just can't help it. I don't mean to, and then the waves just come up, when I'm not looking. They do that sometimes, you know.'

Martin's trying not to smile.

'Come on then, Trevor. And behave, walk okay, no pulling. I mean it.' He's whistling as he walks back up the steps from the beach.

The casserole is at the perfect sticky-and-soft stage by the time we're home and de-sanded. I've lit the fire in the living room, and I'm having a calming moment with The Antiques Roadshow before I start on another quest for missing PE kit. I seem to have become lost-property monitor again, endlessly rounding up jettisoned socks, but I've already made the packed lunches for school tomorrow so all systems are go for a painless school run tomorrow, if I can track down Archie's PE shirt.

I'll give them ten minutes before I go up and start tucking them in. I might even get an early night with the rest of the papers. I've got a magazine I haven't read as well, and my feet are sore and my back's aching, so a bath and then an early night might be my best bet. The baby can have its nightly stretching session while I catch up on what I could be wearing if I still had a waist. Perfect.

Chapter Nine.

October

Needles and Pearls

It's the first week of October and my list of vital things to do before D-Day and my hospital date is getting longer. I'm trying to keep Calm, but the nesting thing still hasn't kicked in yet, although I did manage to get the cot up at the weekend, with Jack and Archie 'helping'. And I'm knitting like a woman possessed; it's about all I can manage at the moment. Baby blankets and teeny tops with extra-wide necks so we don't have too many of those newborn screaming fits when you try to get something over their heads, and they try to stop you by shrieking so loudly you think you must be traumatising them for life.

We're walking back from school, and Connie's telling the kids all about her uncle's ice-cream parlour in Florence.

'So we'll have our own ice-cream shop, Mum?'

'Yes, Archie.' He's skipping. 'And we can have ice cream every day?'

'Maybe not every day.'

'But nearly every day.'

'Maybe.'

I wonder if you can go off ice cream, like people who work in sweet factories go off chocolate. Although as far as Archie's concerned, probably not.

'When will it be ready?'

'What, love?'

'The ice-cream shop.'

'A while yet; we've got to finish all the tidying up, and get the shop fixed first.'

'At the weekend maybe?'

Possibly a bit longer than that.

'After Christmas.'

'Well, hurry up, Mum, I can't wait. What's for tea?'

'Omelettes.'

'Yuck.'

It's just past midnight and I'm having one of my I'm-very-pregnant-and-it's-only-going-to-get-worse panic attacks; I can't do all of this, not with the shop and everything, I know it will all end in tears, and I still haven't heard anything from Daniel, so God knows if he's told Liv yet. And Christ knows what I think I'm doing trying to expand in the shop; I can barely cope as it is. I need to find somewhere quiet, and hide, that's what I need. Somewhere safe and dark and quiet.

'Mum.'

Great. That's all I bloody need.

'Yes, Jack.'

'I had my bad dream again.'

'Did you, love? Well, come and tell me.'

'It was horrible.'

'Say it out loud and it'll go away.'

'I was looking for you, in a sort of forest, and I couldn't find you, and Archie was being really silly and shouting.'

So no change there then.

'And then there was a wolf.'

'Oh dear.'

'Yes, but then it was Trevor and it was all right. But it was still scary.'

'Never mind it won't come back now.'

'Can I stay here?'

'Yes, if you're very quiet.'

'Mum.'

'Yes?'

'I think the ice-cream shop will be brilliant.'

'Good.'

'Mum.'

'Jack. Go to sleep.'

'It's much better here than when we lived in London, isn't it?'

'Yes.'

'Because we've got all our friends.'

'Yes.'

'And now we're going to have an ice-cream shop.'

'Yes, now go to sleep or you'll have to go back to your own bed. Think about all your favourite flavours of ice cream and go all floppy. You'll be asleep in no time.'

Actually, I might give it a go myself.

Coffee and hazelnut. Proper raspberry ripple, with real vanilla. Orange sorbet. And that honey one, with bits of crunchy honeycomb. Maybe I can do this after all. Maybe the boys will grow up to be Broadgate's answer to Ben and Jerry and they'll transform the family ice-cream business and go global. What was that one I had in Venice? Pistachio that was lovely, and the pale creamy peach one, with bits of meringue in it.

I'll add it to my list.

It's Wednesday evening and I'm sitting knitting a soft Aran jacket with a hood for the baby while the boys watch telly and I try to summon up the energy for bathtime when Mum calls.

'I just wanted to check you hadn't changed your mind about Christmas.'

'No, Mum, sorry, especially not now with the shop.'

'Best thing that could happen, if you ask me burn it down and start again in a proper job, something more suitable.'

'Mum, we've had this conversation.'

'I don't know how you can be so selfish, Josephine, I really don't.'

'I've got to go now, Mum. I'll call you later.'

'Mum.'

'Yes, Archie?'

'Can we have toasted cheese now? You said we could.'

'Yes, we can, and then baths.'

'And, Mum, you know I'm being an aubergine in the play. Not tomorrow, tomorrow is just stupid singing.'

Christ, I'd forgotten about the Harvest Festival at school tomorrow and I'm meant to be taking fairy cakes in, for the PTA stall afterwards. Damn. I think I've got flour and eggs. I'll make them while Mummy's little helpers are asleep. Bugger.

'Mum?'

'Yes, I'm listening, Archie.'

'Well, I'm not being an aubergine any more, because I broke it. I'm being a carrot.'

'Okay.'

The phone rings at just after one in the morning. Bloody hell, if this is another emergency fire or flood moment I'm asking for my sodding money back. And if it's Mum on about Christmas again I'm putting the phone down on her.

'I've left Harry.'

'Ellen, where are you?'

'Outside.'

'What?'

'Wake up, darling I'm outside and I need you to let me in. This is my hour of need.'

Ellen was always turning up in the middle of the night when we lived in London and she'd had a fight with the latest man. Nick used to pick the phone up and hand it to me without even waking up. But this is different. God, I wonder what's happened? I hope Harry's not having an affair. Or maybe she is? No, I'd know if she was.

She's cold, and a bit shaky.

'Tea, or hot chocolate? I think there's some left.'