Mary closed her eyes.

The voices disappeared with their owners, and Mary made her way slowly to the kitchen. Through the window, she could see Robbie walking around the garden with Lily, pointing out flowers. Lily’s small hand in his, her face lit up.

Mary began filling the sink, piling in cake plates and chocolate-muddied forks. On the windowsill, her Santa Cruz lighthouse glistened in the sunlight, calling her home. Home. She turned off the faucet. This is home now. You made your bed.

Much later, when Lily was asleep and the kitchen was finally spotlessly clean, Mary joined Robbie in the living room. Wind whistled down the chimney as she picked up her book and curled her bare feet beneath her on the armchair. The clock on the mantlepiece ticked towards nine, the second hand moving slowly, inexorably, round and round. Tick tick tick. The lights flickered. She kept her eyes trained on her book. Robbie glanced up from his paper.

‘So that was a good day,’ he said, his voice light.

She nodded. ‘Lily loved it.’

‘Though how on earth did you mess up something as simple as serving jelly and ice cream?’ His voice still light, but not in a good way.

She bit her lip. Debating. Reply or don’t reply. The memory of his hand on her shoulder still branded on her brain; his fingers digging into her skin while he smiled and said it didn’t matter. Always the perfect host.

‘It made us look cheap. Like we’re trying to pass off a jar of jam as dessert. I saw Ines whispering about it to Victor.’ He smoothed the newspaper on his lap. ‘Mind you, anything that annoys Ines tends to cheer me up.’ He laughed now.

Mary nodded. Safer territory. The clock ticked as though there was nothing to worry about. Nothing to see here.

‘I’d say Victor’s delighted she’s heading off to Spain again,’ Robbie continued. ‘I don’t know how he puts up with that woman.’

Still the clock ticked. But this was smooth, even ground. On the subject of Ines O’Brien they were in agreement, and that made it a good topic.

‘She’s always so rude.’ Mary shook her head.

‘She’s jealous of you.’

‘Oh, I don’t think so.’

‘She is. She was Queen Bee until you arrived. Rowanbrook’s one and only half-glamorous resident. Think of the competition – Della looks like she was dragged through a hedge, and Susie thinks she’s a model but she’s pushed out six kids; she’s well past it.’

Mary nodded, forcing her fading smile to stay in place. Robbie picked up the paper again and patted the couch. ‘Come sit beside me.’

She uncurled her legs and moved to the couch, her book still in her hand.

‘What’s the book?’ he asked.

This was new. Robbie didn’t like novels. Fiction was made up, a waste of time. And people who read novels were pretentious, according to him; making out they were smarter than everyone else. He was never interested in what she was reading. Everything else, yes. Her friends, where she went while he was at work, her interactions with neighbours. But never her novels.