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‘How was it?’ I whispered into his blue checked shirt.

‘Averagely ghastly.’

I could hear his heart beating fast in my ear. I looked up. ‘She's bound to be upset, Ant.’

He gave a twisted smile. ‘She's more than upset. Her father is the devil incarnate. Either that or Don Juan. Apparently I've ruined her life.’ His voice quavered as he said this.

I sat up. Held on tight to his hand. Looked into his kind blue eyes; sad and pained. I knew I had to be strong. ‘That's just shock talking, darling. It's a terrible shock for her, of course it is. For all of us. She feels like she's lost her moorings; she feels rocked. But she'll steady up. And when she does, she'll realize it's not so terrible. I have.’

He turned his head to look at me. ‘Really?’

‘Yes. Ant, I know how she's feeling – as if her life has been a lie up to now; as if, all the time, something's been going on behind her back. She feels betrayed.’

‘It's sort of what she said. This girl growing up, furtively, secretively.’ He sighed. ‘I can understand that. It's how I feel as well.’

‘Exactly, and she's bound to be frightened too, because she thinks everything will change, but it won't. Initially she'll have to adjust to this person actually existing –’ I couldn't quite say ‘Stacey’ – ‘but her life, our life, will go on the same as ever. Me, you and Anna.’

‘Who have you been talking to?’

‘Malcolm.’

He smiled. ‘Good old Malcolm.’ He sighed. ‘Let's hope he's right.’ He raked a hand through his hair. ‘I wish I hadn't told her. Wish I'd kept quiet.’

‘You had to tell her.’

‘I know.’

‘Where is she?’

‘In her room, I think. I took her out for a coffee in Starbucks, but she ran out on me. Thought she was going to throw her hot chocolate at me. She came home.’

I caught my breath. Oh God. Poor Ant, desperately following his daughter's tracks through the streets of Oxford. ‘But you're sure she's back?’

‘Her music's on.’

‘Ah.’ We were quiet a moment. Then: ‘I'll go and see her.’

‘Yes. She'll talk to you.’ How sad he sounded. Crushed. And usually, it was the other way round. It was Ant she'd talk to, confide in, if I was honest. The two of us could clash over clothes, the state of her room, her giving me lip, but she'd always talk to Ant.

‘This is a big shock,’ I promised him. ‘Give her time. She'll come round.’

‘Have you?’ His eyes, when they found mine, were vulnerable.

I swallowed. ‘I'm getting there.’

I went upstairs and put my ear to her door. Light shone from a crack underneath and the Black Eyed Peas filtered out softly. She never played music at a million decibels, just in the background. I knocked.

‘Anna? Darling? Can I come in?’

No answer. I tried the handle. Locked. I called again.

‘Anna, sweetheart, let me in.’

There was a rustle within. After a moment, a piece of paper came under the door: ‘I don't want to talk about it.’

I went to the drawer in my room and found a pen.

‘Not even to me?’ I wrote back.

‘Especially not to you,’ came back the missive.

Oh. Right. I could feel myself bridling involuntarily. Why especially not to me? What the hell did I have to do with it? Feeling anger and resentment, which I'd so painstakingly quelled for the last half-hour or so, resurfacing again, I went off to my bedroom to breathe.

The evening sun was pouring through the French window and the pretty wrought-iron balcony cast an intricate shadow on the cream carpet. I looked out. Below, in the street, a couple of students cycled past, laughing, one nearly careering into the other. ‘Oh, Barnaby, you idiot!’ Life was going on. Just an ordinary day. Everything will be fine, I told myself, staring out, holding myself tight. It will all be fine.

After a moment, I gave myself a little shake, went through to the bathroom. I turned the bath taps on full and reached for a bottle, shaking in a good dollop of Chanel bath oil, which I'd had for about six months and was waiting for ‘an occasion’ to be used. Occasions presented themselves less and less these days, I found, but this was as good a time as any, if not quite what I'd had in mind.