Eve laughs but Grace doesn’t; she downs the contents of her glass in one, standing to reach the wine for a refill. The neat outline of her buttocks is printed on the chair. Melissa bites back questions as Grace sits down again; her hand is oozing blood from a graze along the side of her palm. Martin spots it at the same moment.

‘Hey, Gracie, what have you done to your hand? Oh, Jesus, look at your face. Did you collide with the washing machine?’

‘Exactly that.’ Grace’s hands slide into her lap and she shakes her hair over her face. ‘Fucking clumsy of me.’

Her words arrive in a little silence and deepen it; as if in response, Eric walks around the table, reaches over her shoulder and puts the wine bottle by her elbow. Martin shakes his head; Paul is the first to speak. ‘Well done for surviving your accident.’ He raises his glass to the newcomer and smiles his most winning smile.

Grace looks away. Paul’s face falls and he drains his glass. Melissa wants to smile; Grace seems immune to her husband’s charm. She glances at her, at the glittering eyes, the sodden dress and the seeping hand. The story about the washing machine is far-fetched; she recognizes trauma even if no one else does, something complicated that Grace is keeping to herself. Melissa passes salad, salmon, bread, none of which she has eaten herself. Grace might have had a minor car accident, and, having damaged the car, be too frightened or embarrassed to confess as she herself would be, though she’s never seen anyone so unafraid, so little abashed.

‘Well, I think you look amazing,’ she whispers, conscious that her words sound trivial, as if trauma could be erased by a compliment, but Grace’s expression softens as she stares down the garden. Melissa follows her gaze to the children dancing around the bonfire. Izzy’s voice carries the loudest, she sounds happy. Melissa’s mouth stretches into a smile so wide it feels dangerous. She puts her hands to her lips as if to hide her teeth while Grace turns her gaze to her. The assessment feels detached but not unkind.

‘Izzy’s having fun,’ Melissa confides. ‘She adores the younger ones. It’s like she’s turning back into a child herself.’

‘Mine don’t tell me much. They’re quieter if anything, a bit grumpy. Growing up, I’d hoped.’ She taps the table with her fingernails. Thin lines of dried blood are embedded in the folds of skin that border each nail; trauma as she’d thought. Melissa looks away.

‘Which do you think, Eve?’ Grace raises her voice. ‘Are our children growing up or getting younger? We can’t decide.’

Eve turns from Martin and glances round at the group as if confused; there is a pause while she visibly gathers her thoughts. Eric leans forward, watching.