Izzy has taken Ash on her lap. Sorrel kisses his cheek and Poppy gives him a sausage from the barbecue, which he crams into his mouth. The children sing the happy birthday song, everyone joining in except for Izzy who wraps her arms around him as if he was her present, a birthday gift especially for her.

Grace

Blake forgot his inhaler, it’s been left on the table.

She tries to ignore it as she pulls the clothes from the washing machine. Martin believed the story about how it was broken though his clothes were spinning around at the time.

She unlocks the glass doors to the little balcony and hangs the clothes on the rack, careful not to tread on Blake’s tomato plants. The air is very warm. Up here you could be on the balcony of a hotel or the prow of some great ship. Today has been perfect, another missed perfect day. The rim of the sun is sinking fast. A plane sweeps by ripping the peace, the red taillights puncture the blue. A point of scarlet flares in the car park below like an echo or a warning. A man is smoking down there; she can’t see his face but he might have clocked her, outlined against the window. Grace steps back inside, shuts the doors then lowers the blinds. Two or three hours of peaceful writing time stretch ahead, time she’d never normally have, though she’s had to sacrifice the chance to be with everyone and she’d wanted that too. She pulls her notebook from its hiding place, opens it at the marked page and starts to write, then pauses. Her eyes flick to the paragraph above, she crosses out a line, writes another, changes the last word, looks up for inspiration. Her gaze meets Blake’s inhaler again, his fingerprints in chocolate outlined on the blue plastic. He doesn’t need it often but he just might be wheezing tonight. Charley said there’d be a bonfire, the smoke could start him off. Martin might not notice until it’s too late. She puts her pencil down, slowly closes her notebook and climbs on the stool to slide it back on the shelf.