Emma’s face had become dark and suffused, the usually friendly eyes flashed alien and hostile. In the stunned silence that followed she picked up a slice of Bakewell tart from the cake stand and flung it at her grandmother. It hit Antonia on the chest and disintegrated on her lap. Never having seen this side of her granddaughter before, Antonia was appalled and distressed.

‘She’s just tired, it’s nothing,’ Bethany said in a matter-of-fact voice, picking Emma up, only to have her face hammered at by two vicious little fists. David intervened at once, taking Emma away and slapping her bottom lightly. The child screeched and jabbered and tried to claw at his face, writhing like a snake the while. Then she started sobbing uncontrollably. Despite their reassuring smiles, Antonia could see that David and Bethany were discomposed and puzzled. Soon after, they left. She felt shaken up by Emma’s outburst, more than she thought possible. She had imagined an accusatory glint in Emma’s eyes. For a moment Emma had reminded her of somebody…

Antonia’s mind became clouded by a certain unidentifiable sense of dread that wouldn’t go away. She had the very palpable feeling of – well, the only way to describe it was, of something having been unleashed.

She knew it was absurd of her to feel like that and sought a rational explanation. No doubt the tantrum had been the sort that three-year-olds experience every day. She was overreacting – she was being neurotic, getting things out of all proportion. She was still smarting from her divorce. Her confidence had been dealt a blow. She hadn’t recovered yet. The trip abroad hadn’t really done the trick.