Mira shrugged again. ‘He has teeth coming. They are pushing through the gum. Very painful. Now I cut through the gum. Teeth through now. Not sore. Not rocket science.’

‘I have never heard of that,’ said Des softly, so as not to disturb his now snoozing baby.

‘Nobody here has heard of anything,’ said Mira.

‘You should write a baby book,’ said Issy, admiringly.

‘It would be one page,’ said Mira. ‘It would say, ask your grandmother. Do not read a stupid baby book. Thank you.’

She accepted the tea, and Elise, who had been sitting very quietly with a book, murmured a little thank-you for the babycino. Des rushed to pay for them.

‘This has saved my life,’ he said. ‘Actually, can I have mine in a takeaway cup? I’m going to go straight home and attempt a nap.’

‘Of course,’ said Issy.

Des looked around. ‘So … ahem … I hear rumours on the grapevine.’

‘What’s that then?’ said Issy pleasantly, ringing up the sale.

‘About this place … Oh, must be wrong then.’

‘What?’

‘I heard something about you selling up … assumed you were off somewhere bigger.’ Des looked round appraisingly. ‘You’ve done a really good job with this and no mistake.’

Issy handed him his change.

‘Well, you’ve heard totally wrong,’ she said. ‘We’re not going anywhere!’

‘Excellent,’ said Des. ‘I must have misheard. Sleep deprivation, you know. OK, well, thanks again.’

Suddenly there was a loud scraping noise outside. Issy rushed out; Des stayed inside in case Jamie woke up again. In the bright summer sunlight, the ironmonger was dragging two wrought-iron chairs past the tree. Next to that was a beautiful table, freshly painted cream. Issy stood and stared.

‘That’s amazing,’ she said. Doti came round the corner, still dejected because Pearl hadn’t made the lunch. While she was still caught up with an undecided Ben, she’d explained to Issy, she wasn’t going to complicate things. Issy rushed to help drag the furniture into position. There were two sets, each with three seats, and two heavy chains to stop them being stolen in the night. They were absolutely lovely.

‘Your grandfather ordered the whole thing,’ said Chester, putting up his hands as Issy gave him a hug. ‘And paid for it, so don’t worry about it. He reckoned you needed them.’

‘I do,’ said Issy, shaking her head. ‘What a stroke of luck you turned out to be. You’re our guardian locksmith.’

Chester smiled. ‘You have to look out for each other in the big city,’ he said. ‘And I know he told me not to but …’

‘Coffee and cake?’

‘That would be lovely.’

Pearl came out with a tray all ready, smiling shyly at Doti, and sitting down to admire the new view.

‘Perfect,’ she said. Louis scampered beneath her feet.

‘I is lion in lion cage,’ he growled. ‘Grrrr.’

‘And we can keep a guard lion to get rid of anyone we don’t like,’ said Issy.

‘I likes everyone,’ announced the guard lion from underneath the table.

‘That’s my problem,’ said Pearl, taking the empty cups back inside.

Any day now, thought Issy. Any day now she was going to stop feeling like a guest in someone else’s home. She would be able to stop tiptoeing everywhere, terrified of making a mess. She hadn’t realized Graeme’s commitment to minimalism was so … so absolute.

Yes, the flat was lovely, but it was all hard edges. The sofas were uncomfortable, the television/Blu-ray/stereo combo fiendishly difficult to work; the oven was a tiny concealed afterthought in an off-plan hi-tech bachelor pad, obviously not intended for people to cook in, although the instant boiling water tap was nice, after the first few agonizing blisters. It was more the habits: getting into the habit of taking off her shoes; never putting anything down, not even a coat, not even for a second. Of having no magazines lying around; of lining up the remote control; of trying to find a tiny space for a chest of drawers to take her clothes, as Graeme’s were all hung up, still wreathed in their plastic wrappers from the dry-cleaner’s. His bathroom cabinet was full of every sort of product imaginable, for skin, for hair; all of it immaculate.

The cleaner scuttled in twice a week and scrubbed down absolutely everything, and if Issy happened to be around when she did so, she didn’t dare touch anything afterwards. Toast had become a happy memory – too many crumbs on the shiny glass surfaces of the kitchen – and they were eating a lot of easy-to-clear stir-fry, even though Issy chafed a little in a kitchen that bothered with a boiling water tap, a wok flame and a wine fridge, but not a proper bloody oven to bake anything in. Would it ever really feel like home?

Graeme, on the other hand, was already feeling he could get used to this. As long as he gave her a bit of a sharp look whenever she left stuff on the floor – why were women always so messy? Why did they need bags to keep all their stuff in? He’d given her a chest of drawers but he’d noticed her shampoos and hair serums – inferior brands, he reckoned, waste of money most of them – creeping into his black-tiled bathroom. He would have to have a word about that.

Apart from that, it was nice to have someone there at the end of the day – she finished so much earlier than he did. It was nice to have someone ask him how his day had been, to produce a home-cooked dinner rather than the Marks & Spencer ready meals he usually lived off; to pour him a glass of wine and listen to the litany of his day. It was really good actually; he was surprised he hadn’t thought of it before. She’d asked him whether she could bring her books over and he’d had to say no; he didn’t have bookshelves, it would spoil the layout of the double-height sitting room, and he absolutely didn’t want her kitsch cooking gear in here. But she didn’t seem to mind that. All of that was fine.

But there was something else playing on his mind. The London office were gung-ho for him to go full steam ahead on this Pear Tree Court idea now. They saw it as a move from just letting offices to actually selling lifestyles, and if it went well, he could see a seriously major future for himself in lifestyle development. It was big-time stuff.

But now it was becoming clear to him that actually, like a total nut job, she really liked running this stupid little shop, getting up at sparrow’s fart and being treated like a skivvy all the time. The more they sold and the harder she had to work, the happier she seemed to be. And the money was still total rubbish. Surely she’d see sense when he explained it …