‘I don’t know how you do it. Other people’s problems …’ Helga shudders.

‘You’re not nearly as mean as you make out,’ Dominica tells her.

‘They say that the path to happiness is by helping other people,’ Tor says, flipping over the bobble on her Santa hat so it avoids the wave.

‘Yeah, well, you’re a saint, Tor, let’s not forget,’ Helga says.

‘Oh, bah humbug,’ Dominica teases her.

‘Seriously, Dominica,’ Tor says, ‘you should do it again. You’re the best listener I know.’

‘I’ll think about it.’

‘The geese, look, look,’ Helga calls, and Dominica turns to see her pointing upwards then follows her gaze. Two geese fly together at speed just overhead, their bellies impossibly white against the blue sky. A pair.

Helga watches Dominica staring at them as they disappear towards the horizon. ‘They’ll be off to find their flock,’ she says, reassuringly, and Dominica nods.

2

The Gravy Arc

Maddy Wolfe wipes the corners of her mouth with the paper napkin, then screws it up and puts it on her empty plate. The starched linen napkins, Murano crystal glasses and Denby bone china plates are all in the dining room on the Christmas table she’s so carefully dressed for her Instagram posts. Trent was surprised when they didn’t eat lunch in there, but she told him that it wasn’t worth getting everything dirty when it was just the two of them, so they’ve eaten in the snug with the kitchen crockery. She regrets it now. Maybe if they’d eaten a proper Christmas meal they’d have had more to chat about, but, without Jamie, or any relatives to fill the table, the whole festive thing feels like a hollow charade.

She’s not going to tell her followers that, though. No, it’s important to keep up the illusion on her @made_home channels. The carefully curated photos of the Christmas grotto in the garden and her beautifully decorated table took weeks of planning, but her feeds look gorgeous – even if she says so herself. If Manpreet, the expensive media consultant, is right, she’ll soon have enough followers to make the sponsorship deals roll in. That’s the plan anyway. But, God, it’s knackering keeping up with the pressure of it all.

‘Thank you,’ Trent says, as she picks up his empty plate, but he doesn’t meet her eye. He drains the bottle of Malbec into his glass. His cheeks are starting to match the colour of his burgundy golf jumper. His boyish brown curly hair has always been one of his best and most defining features, but he’s going grey around his temples and it’s thinning on top. ‘That was very nice.’

Nice. The word is loaded with disapproval.

‘Yes, well, a turkey crown is less wasteful. And we’ve got some for sandwiches later on,’ she says defensively, trying to justify their unremarkable Christmas lunch. She notices, with distaste, that he’s picking at some food stuck in his gum line with one of the cocktail sticks from the pigs in blankets.