She came downstairs again, at around 8 p.m., puffy-eyed and pale, having presumably had a nap and (with the alcohol slowly wearing off now) a feeling of remorse beginning to wash over her. She apologised profusely, told me she wished she could take back all the nasty things she’d said to me, and then tearfully attended to Roman’s needs for the rest of the evening and night. I didn’t know if it was partly motivated by the report she knew I’d have to write for Hannah – which must have been on her mind – but when Saturday came, and Sunday, and she seemed to be making a real effort to make amends, I allowed myself to believe she really meant it. But now it was the following Friday, and almost 7.30 in the evening, and once again she wasn’t home from school. And as I jiggled a disconsolate Roman around on my shoulder and tried to do everything one handed, I reflected that the city of Rome wasn’t built in a day any more than its tiny namesake. I was disappointed, but I wasn’t surprised by Emma’s intermittent progress.
