She kicks off her shoes and goes upstairs. In the bedroom she sits on the bed in the dark. She is breathing quickly. There is a tightening in her skull. Something is troubling her. Nathan—the way he was with that woman Zoe. Their heads bent together looking at her phone, his low exclamation at the sight of her child.

There is a noise beside her and she jumps. At first she does not know what it is, then she understands—it is Tom, he is here, sleeping in the big bed. She can see him properly now, in the small light from the landing, his arm flung out to the side. She lies down beside him. He stirs but does not wake. His breath smells sweet. It is so even. He is so deeply asleep.

She curls up beside him and puts her finger in his grip, tracing the small bumps of his knuckles beneath her thumb, her cells fizzing with a longing that might split her in two.

And she understands something, lying here—an understanding that arrives in her cells fully formed. She has lost her husband—or her husband is lost to her. Something fundamental, some deep river that fed them, has dried up.

For the moment—this small moment, with this small hand in hers—this knowledge does not hurt, but she knows there is pain waiting for her, on the other side of this. She knows it will come.

It is quiet, for now, up here, while downstairs there is music, louder now, and Cate’s voice raised above it, exhorting everyone to dance.

Cate

“I USED TO LOVE DANCING!” SHE YELLS. “DEA, ZOE, COME ON!” She pulls them to their feet. Someone needs to change the energy in here—rescue the evening, which is in danger of escaping, of slipping away. “Where’s the rest of the wine?”

There is a bottle by Mark, half full. She goes over towards him, lifts it and pours it into a nearby glass.

“Are you sure you need any more of that?” he says.

“I’m sorry?” Cate turns back to him. “What did you just say?”

Something in the way he stands—an ancient violence, simmering just beneath the surface. As though on an unspoken cue, Tamsin moves towards her husband. Behind her, Cate can sense Dea and Zoe. Nathan is sitting, watching to her side. Sam to her left. Hannah, where is Hannah? Cate lifts the glass to her mouth. The wine is no longer cold. It tastes tacky, overly sweet.

“I think your wife might have had enough. Don’t you think?” Mark turns to Sam.

Cate splutters. “Oh my god, you’re not really saying that? I think you’ve had enough, love.” She is laughing hard now. “Oh, wait—you are?!” She shakes her head. “You’re a joke.”

“Excuse me?”