That was all down to Ines’s husband, Victor O’Brien, and his friend, Tom Stedman. People said women gossiped, but as far as Mary could tell, the men of Rowanbrook were just as quick to share family secrets. Their own and other people’s.

In this instance, the secret belonged to Ines and Victor. And according to Della, who always knew everything, Ines never wanted anyone to find out. Of course, it came down to alcohol, as it almost always did in Rowanbrook, from what Mary could see. Whiskey and vodka, lowering guardrails and loosening tongues.

With Victor and Tom, it had started with a round of golf, followed by quite a few drinks in the club. Tom had made some off-the-cuff comment to Victor about having more kids. Commenting on other people’s procreation choices was something Tom and Susie did on a regular basis – incapable, with their brood of six, of understanding why everyone didn’t want the same. Victor, three pints and four whiskies in, had apparently broken down, and told Tom that he and Ines couldn’t have any more children. They’d tried, when Cora turned two. They’d gone for tests when Cora was four. But there was no possibility. His voice had cracked at that point, Tom reported back, and Tom had found himself awkwardly hugging his neighbour at the Edenvale Golf Club bar, commiserating with him over another round of whiskies.

Victor got embarrassed then, brushed it off, apparently. Said he didn’t mind too much. That it was more Ines than him who was upset. That Cora was enough. That Ines saw it as a failing on her part. That the doctor said lifestyle changes would help. Less alcohol. No smoking. But, he’d shrugged, taking another gulp of whiskey, you know Ines.

Of course, Della pointed out, you couldn’t really blame Victor for confiding in Tom. Even men need to open up sometimes. But then Tom went home and told Susie. And Susie told the babysitter. And Cynthia, who babysat for quite a number of Rowanbrook families, told everyone. Where was Cynthia now, Mary wondered, as Susie’s three-year-old son Luke upended a glass of cordial. She glanced around the kitchen as she wiped up the spill. Robbie was cleaning frosting from Lily’s chin, and Cora, beside them, was still nibbling on her cake. Victor O’Brien, barely hiding his disinterest behind his beard, had joined Ines by the patio door – the two stood side by side, not speaking, as Ines blew cigarillo smoke towards the garden. Meanwhile, Susie was chatting to Della, oblivious to her child’s mishap. Mary stood and moved to the sink to squeeze out the cloth, looking through the kitchen window as she did. She spotted Cynthia out in the garden with Tom Stedman, her head thrown back in laughter, her straw-coloured hair cascading to her hips. She reached out and touched Tom’s elbow in what looked like a you’re so funny gesture. Tom was funny, and never more so than when he had the attention of the twenty-nine-year-old babysitter. Mary ran the water to rinse the cloth and outside, Cynthia ran her hand through her hair, her lean, brown arm ropey in the sunlight. Mary had a sudden urge to feed her. Cynthia never seemed to eat. When Fran next door babysat, the bowl of treats was always empty by the time Mary and Robbie arrived home. When Cynthia babysat, even during the day, there was never any evidence that she’d eaten anything at all. Lily, though only three, already preferred Fran, and Mary did too. Fran wasn’t a particularly enthusiastic or energetic babysitter and she never tidied up after herself, but Cynthia … well, there was something brittle about her. Sharp but distant. Disconcerting.