The woman turns. Everything about her is long: long limbs, long neck, long fingers laced around a mug. She is surpassingly beautiful. “Nice to meet you, Cate, I’m Zoe.” Her accent is American; Cate thinks she hears the sounds of the South. Dea wanders over to the stove and kisses Zoe. Cate watches Zoe’s hand briefly linger on Dea’s back.

“Take a seat, Cate,” says Zoe. “Excuse the mess.”

Cate perches on the seat of a battered sofa, which is covered with throws and cushions. Sunlight shines in from the window behind, warming her back. Kilner jars compete for shelf space with books and toys and bottles, glinting in the sunlight. More books lie in piles on every other surface. A biography of Louise Bourgeois is being used as a plant stand. There is dust on the chair rails and the floorboards are scuffed. Dishes are piled in the sink. The sight of the dirty plates invokes in Cate a mild but profound sense of relief. “Have you lived here long?” she asks.

“Five years.” Dea shakes herbs into a pot. “We were in the States before that. I was teaching at a university out there, which is where we met. But I’m a Kent girl. I grew up just outside the city. What about you? Have you been in Canterbury awhile?”

“Almost two months. We moved when Tom was five months old.”

“That couldn’t have been easy.”

“It was OK,” Cate lies.

“Where are you living?”

“Over the other side of town. Wincheap way.”

“I know it over there,” says Dea with a smile. “We have a plot, round the back of Toddler’s Cove.”

“Well, lovely to meet you, Cate,” says Zoe. “I’m just off to do a little work while Nora naps.”

“Oh, the spacious joys of a funded PhD.”

“Oh, the joys of fully paid maternity leave,” says Zoe, blowing Dea a kiss. “Hey,” she says, turning at the door. “You should set something up, you two. Something chill. Something where mothers get together.”

“We’re doing it.” Dea walks over with a cup of tea and hands it to Cate. “Aren’t we, Cate? This is it. This is our group. Right here. Right now.”

“Er . . . yeah, I guess so,” says Cate. She lifts her tea—it is pale yellow, and gently fragrant. Small flowers float on the surface.

Dea slides herself onto the sofa beside Cate. “Mum Club. The only rule of Mum Club is that we don’t talk about Mum Club. Right?”

Zoe laughs and rolls her eyes. “I’ll leave you two to it,” she says with a wave.

When Zoe has gone, Dea turns to Cate. “Chocolate cookie? I’ve got a stash.”

“Um. Sure.”

Dea reaches into the cupboard behind her and takes out a tin. “Amazing the stuff you find yourself buying when you become a mum. I’d forgotten how delicious chocolate fingers are.” Cate leans in and takes one.