On cue, Cynthia arrived in through the patio doors. She was smiling but it had a glazed quality, Mary thought, as though she was smiling at nothing at all.

‘Ah, yes, Cynthia,’ Ines was saying. ‘Just the person. You will be there when Cora arrives home from school tomorrow, yes?’

For a moment, the smile slipped and a small line creased the bridge of Cynthia’s nose.

‘Oh yes! Of course. Three o’clock. I love Cora. We’ll have the best time.’ She looked at her watch and her eyes widened. ‘Is it after five? Shit.’

‘Are you running late for something? I’ll give you a lift if you like?’ Tom Stedman called from the other side of the kitchen, jangling his keys. Susie was busy tying her son’s shoelace and didn’t look up.

‘Oh, if you could!’ The big smile was back – less glazed now, more focused.

‘We will go too now,’ Ines said, and Victor, following an unspoken command, walked over to take their daughter by the hand.

‘Thank you so much for coming,’ Mary called from the porch, waving off her guests. Ines, Cora and Victor walked in single file down the driveway, with Ines admonishing Cora for eating a second slice of cake. ‘You will be a fat little pig, and you do not want that.’

Cora’s head hung low. Victor strode on, oblivious. Mary winced. Poor Cora.

Further down towards the gate, just ahead of the O’Briens, Mary could see Cynthia leaning on Tom’s arm as she stumbled in her heels and almost crashed into a familiar figure coming in the opposite direction. Ruth Cavanagh. Striding up Mary’s driveway. Mary sighed inwardly.

‘Ruth, hi,’ Mary said, wondering, as she took in the scowl, what she’d done to upset her difficult neighbour this time.

‘Another party?’

Mary nodded. Robbie’s ‘invite everyone’ didn’t include Ruth Cavanagh.

Ruth shook her head, and her light blue eyes narrowed behind her glasses. ‘You’d better make sure none of those children cross into my back garden. My peonies and foxgloves were destroyed last summer by children sneaking in.’

Ruth’s house was right behind Mary’s, with their gardens backing on to one another, but their relationship revolved solely around Ruth’s deep disdain and frequent complaints.

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Mary said. ‘I don’t think—’

Ruth cut her off. ‘Children today have no manners. When I was teaching, if anyone carried on like that – slipping through the back fence, trampling flowers, muddying up my path – they’d get a clip around the ear.’

They’re too damn scared to call at the front door, Mary thought to herself. Della had told Mary that her twins rang Ruth’s doorbell once, looking for their football, and she threatened them with a wooden spoon. After that, they skipped the niceties and went straight for the garden fence. Mary didn’t say any of this to Ruth.

‘We’ll remind everyone to stay in our garden,’ she said instead.

Ruth stood for another moment, as though about to say something else. Tall and thin, her hair was styled in a severe, dark grey bob and Mary could never tell what age she was. There had been a Mr Cavanagh once, though he’d died many years earlier. Some said Ruth wasn’t a widow at all – that Mr Cavanagh had upped and left a joyless marriage – but that seemed a little mean, Mary thought. Surely the woman wouldn’t have lied about her own husband’s demise.