Beneath the steps Izzy is inspecting the faces clustered around her, one by one, as if choosing a favourite; she puts an arm around Poppy who grins widely and they retreat to the little house. Blake takes Ash by the hand and follows them. Sorrel and Charley walk in after the others, and the door is shut. Eve meets Eric’s eyes, she raises her glass to him, he tips his bottle of beer to her, his playground has just been christened. She sits down at the table, Melissa next to her and Martin the other side, so close she is conscious of his sleeve lightly brushing her arm each time he lifts his glass to his mouth.

‘Izzy’s told us how well she’s doing.’ Melissa places cool fingers on Eve’s other arm. ‘Especially maths. We’re thrilled. How on earth do you do it?’

Eve studies her friend’s face, masking surprise. She sends weekly reports home with Izzy. They are clear, Izzy’s work is careless. Her problem is different from Poppy’s and Blake’s. They reverse numbers, struggle with order and have trouble with columns of tens and units; the kind of difficulties she was expecting. After a good start, Izzy fails to finish her sums; it’s as though she’s bored. It occurs to her that Izzy could be discarding the reports before they reach her mother.

‘Izzy’s doing well with writing and reading.’ She puts her hand over Melissa’s. ‘Her maths still needs a little work.’

‘Paul said it’s getting better.’ Melissa falters, slipping her hand away.

‘I sense a clever mind; once she decides to improve, she’ll fly, I know it.’

Melissa stares at the playhouse where her daughter has disappeared; she looks mystified.

‘Well, we love what you’re doing.’ Martin’s whisper in her ear raises goosebumps. He reaches to pour champagne into Melissa’s glass and then hers, his hand resting briefly, burningly on her shoulder. By the time Eric has straightened from the barbecue, calling to the children, Martin’s hands are back in his lap. Eric circles the table, a steak drops on to Martin’s plate, spattering a little blood. Melissa jolts and reaches for the salad. The children settle noisily around their table, Blake elbowing Charley to sit next to Izzy. Poppy is on her other side. Eve pours a tiny amount of rosé into a beaker, diluting it to the faintest pink with water; she gives it to Sorrel.

‘Is it dreadful of me?’ she whispers to Martin. ‘She adores it, I think it makes her feel grown-up.’ He shakes his head, laughing.

Eve raises her glass. ‘Happy birthday to my special boy.’