Izzy had hurried to her room on their return to finish her weekend homework and Paul slipped in later, as usual, shutting the door. She needed his help, he’d said; he asked her not to disturb them. She paces to the window. The gravel garden looks pale and lifeless in the outdoor lighting. Eve’s lawn had shone in the sun at lunchtime; the smell of grass is still on her palms, the same scent that had been in the air the day she met Paul. He’d been sprawled like some god by the side of the grass court in the tennis club, twenty years ago. ‘Look at that,’ her friend Julie had whispered. ‘Bet he’s got loads of girlfriends.’ Melissa could feel him staring at her as she played; she’d felt exposed in her tennis skirt, babyish in the ridiculous socks, but she’d seemed fresh, he told her later, so innocent, so young. As the summer progressed he took her to the theatre and for picnics by the sea in his sports car with the roof rolled down. She was fifteen, bowled over by the attention. When she told him about her anorexia, whispering with shame, he seemed refreshingly unperturbed. Her parents didn’t mind the age gap; her father said Paul was a man after his own heart, ruthless like him. Ambition should be rewarded, he’d said. He’d set him up in his own architectural practice. They were married after her interior design course. She spent a couple of years building her business before she was allowed a pregnancy, back to work after. Sometimes she wonders if they’d planned it all out between them from the start.

The door of Izzy’s bedroom opens after a further ten minutes and Paul emerges, but as she moves forward he shuts it quickly behind him. ‘She’s tired out again, poor lamb. Come with me,’ he whispers and leads her downstairs. His clasp is firm on her arm; cheated again. He pours them some wine. ‘She’s doing okay.’ He raises the glass to her. ‘Those lessons were a smart move, Melly. Good thinking.’

His praise hooks her back, still. She moves closer and holds her hands out. ‘Smell, right here. Does it remind you of anything?’

‘You know I can’t stand perfume.’ He frowns.

‘It’s just grass, not perfume. It took me back to that tennis club where we—’

‘Can you wash it off before bed?’ He picks up his glass. ‘I ate at work; I’ve got accounts to go over.’

She’s not going to cry, it’s her fault; she picked the wrong moment. He’s tetchy with tiredness, that’s all. Lina is laying out their food in the kitchen: pink salmon, green broccoli and tiny new potatoes.

‘Please eat with me, Lina, Paul’s busy.’