In the week before they’d left the flat, Hilary had broken into the house to rescue the children from the upstairs window. She’d found Charlotte drunk on the sofa. The row had been fearful, prompting the premature move to their own unfinished house.

‘Don’t start up with that,’ he said gently. ‘Look, there’s Martin and Vanessa,’ he said, holding up a hand and waving.

For a while they chatted with these neighbours, Martin and Greg attempting to discuss Y2K compliance above the din of the crowd, Hilary explaining to Vanessa their latest drama with a building contractor, but her attention was divided, her eyes darting around the room, seeking him out in the crowd.

She felt hyped up and conspicuous. Everyone around her was dressed for the party. The men were casual enough, but the women all teetered in heels and strappy sandals, jewellery flashing. Many seemed to have taken their cue from the Sex and the City playbook – sleeveless shift dresses in jewel colours, or frothy delights in cool pastels. In her washed-out grey denims and painting shirt, Hilary felt like a teenager called down to mingle on sufferance with her parents’ friends. She thought about slipping out and going home to change quickly, but was afraid if she did she’d lose her nerve and wouldn’t come back.

She drank more wine and tried to relax, waiting for him. The reception rooms felt large and beige, light cast from gilt wall sconces shaped like candles, faux-wax melting down the sides. Thick-pile carpet underfoot gave off its own particular heat and the stairway swept through the hall in an impressive fashion. The kitchen was a disappointment. Small and poky, it looked unloved and underused. It was clear the lady of the house had little interest in it. The little boy, Mark, sat on the stairs, guarding the upper floor. He wore Thomas the Tank Engine pyjamas and sat with his elbows resting on his knees, his chin balanced on his hands.

‘Hello there,’ she called up to him, but he didn’t answer, just stared down at her with a closed-off expression.

She wondered at him being allowed to stay up so late. There was no sign of the little girl.

All the while, she was aware of Anton’s presence. Without ever looking directly at him, she tracked him with her peripheral vision, and knew he was keeping tabs on her, too. They worked their way around the rooms of the house, carefully avoiding each other, which lent an erotic charge to the evening – that sense of deliberate withholding. It wasn’t until late into the night that he came for her.