She swims up out of sleep, heavy as though lead weights have been attached to her limbs. The clock reads 3:17. Her mouth is dry and furry. There's a small figure in the doorway. She smacks her lips together, unglues her tongue from the roof of her mouth. “What is it, baby? What's up?” “Can I get in with you?” “What's happened?” “I saw Daddy in my room.” “Oh, darling.” She lifts the duvet and opens the bed up. Yasmin crosses the room and climbs in beside her. This is wrong. Supernanny would be wagging her finger if she saw me now. But it's after three and my baby's in a state. Yasmin smells of talc and No More Tears. Bridget puts her arms round the frail body, breathes her in. “He was standing at the foot of my bed,” says Yasmin. She sounds – defeated, exhausted. “Oh darling,” she says again. She'd been half-expecting this. Whenever there was an incident with Kieran in London, Yasmin would be clingy and nervous for days, following her from room to room and kicking up a fuss whenever they left the house.
