Page 62 of The Psychopath Next Door

Without warning, Rose snatched the lipstick from Emma’s hand and threw it against the wall.

‘Ihateyou!’ She yelled it at the top of her voice, drawing Dylan from his room.

‘What’s going on?’

‘Dylan, just stay out of it,’ I said, but Rose barged past me as I spoke, leaving Emma open-mouthed behind her, and locked herself in the bathroom. She didn’t come out for an hour. In the meantime, Emma agreed to leave it. We would go away, enjoy the holiday. I was so tense because of my marital woes that I could barely function. I couldn’t cope with a war between Emma and Rose on top.

All the way up the motorway Rose had sat there looking like she was being driven to a prison camp, complaining about the music, about feeling carsick, asking to stop so she could use the loo three times in four hours. She was hardly talking to Emma. Thankfully, the lipstick hadn’t been mentioned again, but I had never seen Rose in such a foul mood.

‘Rose,’ I said now, determined not to lose my temper. ‘You’re going to help me unpack the car.’

She huffed and puffed as she carried small bags to and fro, stopping several times to look at TikTok on her phone. I was tempted to pluck it from her grasp and fling it into the pond.

‘We’re going to have a good time, I promise,’ I said, knowing that shouting and playing the parent card wouldn’t work. Much better to be positive and wait for the storm clouds to pass.

She grunted – and then, to my enormous surprise, she flung her arms around me, pressing the side of her face against my chest. She hung on for thirty seconds.

‘What was that for?’ I asked.

She looked confused, like she wasn’t sure why she’d done what she’d just done. Like she was annoyed with herself.

‘I love you, sweetheart,’ I said, ruffling her hair.

She flinched away, irritated by my touch, and I thought she was going to storm off again, the most capricious creature on the planet, but instead she said, ‘I love you too, Dad,’ and of course I forgave her for everything.

There was another family in the cabin next to ours with kids roughly the same age as Dylan and Rose. The son, Henry, was eleven, and the daughter, Keira, was fifteen. Their parents, Theo and Angela, came round a couple of hours after we’d arrived, and said that if our kids wanted to hang out with theirs, that was cool by them.

Dylan shrugged and acted nonchalant but I could tell he was keen – because Keira was a very pretty girl. They had brought their dog with them (we had only made arrangements to leave Lola behind because she hated car journeys), and Keira asked Dylan if he wanted to take the dog, a golden retriever, for a walk along the nearby canal. He agreed immediately.

Rose seemed far less enthusiastic about spending time with Henry, but there was something wrong with our hot tub – the temperature was too low – and when Henry, who was one of those kidswho seemed to be completely lacking the shyness gene, suggested Rose use their tub, she allowed herself to be persuaded.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Theo to Emma and me. ‘We’ll keep an eye on them.’ He had a Manchester accent and we had a chat about music while Rose got changed. He seemed nice, as did Angela, who explained she was a child psychologist.

‘That must be interesting,’ Emma said. ‘Except I guess you’re constantly having to resist the urge to analyse your own kids.’

‘Oh, I can’t help it.’ She laughed. We were standing on the strip of grass between our cabins. ‘It’s impossible not to mess up your children in some way or other. Luckily, ours seem to be doing pretty well so far. Henry is outgoing, like his dad.’

‘And Keira is a brainbox like her mum,’ Theo said. ‘Beautiful like her too.’

‘Creep.’

He put his hand on the small of her back and their lips met briefly. I felt a stab of envy. When was the last time Emma had kissed me or shown affection in front of others? I couldn’t remember.

‘Are you all right, mate?’ Theo asked.

‘Huh? I’m fine.’ I knew I didn’t sound it. ‘I was just thinking ... Rose has been quite moody and difficult the last couple of days.’

‘“Quite moody” is an understatement,’ Emma interjected. ‘It’s like someone came and body-swapped our lovely daughter and replaced her with a new, angrier model.’

‘How old is she?’ Angela asked.

‘Just turned twelve.’

‘And she’s only just started to get moody?’

I was about to go into more detail when Angela put her palms up and said, ‘It’s not ethical for me to talk about a specific child, so don’t give me any more information. But in general terms, my advice is simple.’

‘Yes?’

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