She had been in the playground, squatting in the damp sandpit with Callum, distracting herself with the memory of that night, the feeling of her head resting on his shoulder in complicit silence in the back of the cab, when her phone pinged a few weeks later.

Gabriela, it’s Ivan. I’ve been in Moscow but I’m back for a few weeks and would love to see you. Let me know.

Her heartbeat quickened as she stared at the screen, stuffing the phone back in her pocket as she heard Tom and Sadie approach.

‘There was no toilet roll and Sadie needs a poo so we’d better go,’ he said and she nodded, standing and picking up Callum who screamed, arching his back so that she practically had to wrestle him into the buggy.

‘We could watch a film later,’ Tom said on the way home and she nodded, trying to smile, trying not to think about the message from Ivan warming her pocket, suppressing the butterflies that fluttered in her chest when she pictured his eyes watching her.

‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Why not?’

She didn’t reply at first, not for a few days. But then, the following Saturday, after another round of extracurricular activities rounded off with a passive-aggressive stand-off with Tom over whose turn it was to do the dishes, she found her fingers hovering over his message.

She had drunk a glass of wine or two and Tom, who had been out at a gig the previous night, was already asleep upstairs.

Hey. How was Moscow? How long are you back for? she typed, the thrill of it making her squirm.

His reply was almost instantaneous, and it was only once it landed on her screen that she realised that she had crossed another line.

I’m going back on the 23rd.

When she didn’t answer, a few seconds later, he sent another:

I was thinking of going away somewhere in the countryside next weekend, will you join me?

I can’t.

Why not?

Her fingers hovered above the buttons. Why not? There were so many reasons, every reason, as to why not.

Her hesitation spurred him on.

Come on, Gabriela, please … Do I have to beg?

From upstairs, she heard a floorboard creak and her chest tightened.

I can’t. I’m sorry, she typed, before turning the phone to airplane mode and switching on the television to distract herself from the sense that a storm was gathering and there was nothing she could do to step out of its path.

‘Saoirse and Jim have invited us to stay next weekend,’ Tom said the following day.

She couldn’t be sure why she was so taken aback.

‘Really? Saoirse hasn’t mentioned it,’ she said, though as the words formed, she realised she couldn’t remember the last time they had talked.