ON THE WEEKEND Sam gets up early and dresses Tom himself. They come in to where she lies in bed, Tom dressed haphazardly in an ill-fitting sweater that barely covers his belly. “We’re going out,” he says.

“Where?”

“Mark and Tamsin’s. Mum’ll be there.”

“Right,” she says. “I don’t suppose I’m welcome then.”

“No, I don’t suppose you are.”

When they have left she takes out her computer. Checks her emails. Searches again for Lucy Skein. Nothing.

She leaves the curtains drawn and burrows back into bed.

The sound of the front door wakes her in the late afternoon. She pulls on sweatpants and a sweater, makes her way downstairs, sees Tom asleep in his stroller in the hallway, finds Sam in the kitchen, sitting at the table, a small zippered bag in front of him.

“Are you leaving?”

“You should be so lucky. They’re from Tamsin. For Tom. Jack outgrew them.”

Cate unzips the bag. A pile of clothes, neatly folded. They smell aggressively clean. “That was nice of her.”

“Yeah, well. She’s pretty nice. But you could always give them back. I mean, we wouldn’t want too much of my family contaminating the air.”

“Sam—”

He holds up his hand. “Wait,” he says. He leaves her, goes upstairs. She hears his footsteps above her head. When he comes back down, he has the prescription bag in his hands. “What are these?”

“They’re pills,” she says flatly. “Antidepressants.”

“And are you taking them?”

“No.”

“Don’t you think you might need to?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know.” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry,” she says.

“For what? For marrying me? For saying I’m not that bright?” His face is twisted.

“I just— I think— I’ve been confused.”

“About what?”

“Me. You. Everything.” She looks at the floor. “There’s someone—”

“Someone else?”

“Not like that.”

“Like what then? Like what?” He bangs the table in front of him. “Come on, Cate. You might as well tell me now.”

Behind her in the hall, Tom stirs, whimpers, then is quiet again.

“Someone I used to know,” she says. “A long time ago. I’ve been thinking about her. A lot. That’s all.”

Sam nods. “OK. A woman?”

“Yes.”

“So what, you’re gay now?”

“No. I mean . . . I was. I wasn’t. It was just her. Just Lucy. I just loved her.”

He looks at her for a long time. “OK,” he says. “When was this?”

“Eleven years ago.”

“And where is she now?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you want to?”

“I don’t know.”

He looks at her for a long time, then nods, as though something has been decided. Then he stands, takes a can of Red Bull from the fridge. “I’m late for work,” he says. “I’ll see you later tonight.”