“But you look great!” cries Cate, and she reaches out and touches Hannah’s sleeve. A strange, reflexive action—she wants something of that sleekness for herself. Hannah’s hand comes down on her own.

“And you?”

“I’m fine,” says Cate.

I think I might be losing my mind.

There is a pause. Cate blows on her coffee while Tom chirrups on Hannah’s lap, and she stares at her lovely child in the arms of her oldest friend and feels sudden, stupid tears in her eyes. She bends to wipe them before Hannah sees. But she has seen, of course she has.

“Hey, you’re crying.”

Cate nods. The tears are streaming now. “I’m OK. I promise. It’s just—”

There is snot; there is nothing to deal with the snot, only a small, thin napkin on the side of her coffee, beneath the plastic-wrapped biscuit. She blows her nose and the napkin dissolves in her hands.

“Here.” Hannah reaches into her bag for tissues, and Cate takes one from the package and blows her nose. “You look tired.”

“I am tired. Tom wakes so often to feed in the night.”

“That’s tough.” Hannah nods. She leans in to Tom and whispers in his ear. “Hey. Listen, you. You give your mum a break. She needs to sleep.”

“You watch,” Cate says. “When you have this baby, you’ll have a sleeper. You’ll have it on a routine from day one.”

Hannah laughs. “Yeah, well, let’s see. How’s Sam?”

“He’s OK. Well, maybe he’s OK. I’m not sure. They offered to take Tom for me, one day a week. Tamsin, Sam’s sister, and Sam’s mum.”

“But that’s great!” says Hannah. “Free childcare. Isn’t that part of why you moved out there?”

“I suppose it is.” Cate looks at Tom, who is flapping his arms with great enthusiasm at a nearby dog. “But what if he turns out like them?”

“What do you mean?”

She shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t really mean that. I just—”

“What?”

“Sometimes I feel I failed.”

“At what?”

“Everything.” She lifts the balled-up tissue in her fist. “I didn’t even have tissues today. My mum always had tissues. That’s just what mums do. And I’m scared.”

“What of?”

“Everything. The future. Climate change. War. I keep thinking what sort of world it will be, when he’s our age.” She circles her hand with her opposite wrist, her thumb touching the spider, just hidden from sight. “And I keep thinking about Lucy. About where she is.”

“Lucy? Really?” Hannah’s expression darkens. “I’m sure wherever she is she’s fine. Come on, Cate, you’ve got Tom. You’ve got Sam. You’ve got your life.”

“But what if it’s not my life?”

“What on earth does that mean?”

“I just feel—”

“What? What do you feel?”

Lonelylonelylonelyallthefuckingtime.

“Sometimes I feel . . .”

“What?”